


Golden Spiral

by ThePerk42



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Depression, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, growing together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5558042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePerk42/pseuds/ThePerk42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story that visits Katniss and Peeta in years coinciding with the numbers of Fibonacci's Sequence (1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21...). This is cannon compliant and takes place immediately after Peeta returns to District 12. Follow the story of their relationship as they adjust and rebuild together.</p><p>"After a while, Peeta starts trying to make me laugh again. I am far too serious to make him laugh, but I know that he finds joy in my own. The first time the rolling noise escapes my mouth, I feel like I have broken an unwritten rule. I clap my hand over my mouth, shake my head, and blink at tears. Peeta reaches out and touches the back of my hand – he knows something I don’t. “It’s okay, Katniss,” he promises me, even though it is not – will never be – okay. “She would want you to be happy.”"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year One

_Fibonacci Sequence: By definition, the first two numbers in the Fibonacci sequence are either 1 and 1, or 0 and 1, depending on the chosen starting point of the sequence, and each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two_.

________________________________

_Year One (Prologue)_

 

It’s been at least a year since the day that I found Peeta outside, dirty but well, planting primroses in the earth. In that time, we’ve been growing closer together, learning how to handle each other’s ups and downs, managing our struggles separately and (more often) together.

**I hunt.**

I wake in the morning when the sun is still starting to rise and the dew drops are heavy on the grass. Peeta, if he was with me the night before, has only just gotten out of the bed himself. His side is still warm with his body heat and sometimes I hear him putting on his shoes and shuffling out the door. On very rare occasions, I wake before he leaves to light kisses on my forehead, shoulder, cheek. I haven’t told Peeta that I know about those yet. I grab something to eat on my way to the forest – a leftover bun, usually – and dress quickly before going out the door with my bow and sheath.

Peeta will be back in a few hours with bread for breakfast, and I like to have something to add to the meal. Sometimes there are berries, or turkey, or wild eggs. We always eat well, and we never starve.

**Peeta bakes.**

He bakes for us, but also for the few hundred people who have returned to District 12. Unable to face the pile of rubble and melted steel, he hasn’t reopened the bakery yet. Maybe one day he will, but it’s not like he needs the money. He loads up a cart with baked goods and knocks on people’s doors offering them free deliciouness – delivered at no cost. Sometimes people will ask for cakes, or cookies – something special. Peeta writes it down on a notepad and promises them for the next day. He is not just kind and generous with me – Peeta has a goodness in him that suffuses every action, every step he takes.

**We spend time together.**

Once the sun has fully risen in the sky, Peeta and I meet back at my house and eat breakfast. We talk about inane things – how the rebuilding of 12 is going, if Effie will actually ever come to visit, how Haymitch’s geese got loose once again. We don’t talk about the itching pain that sits just under the surface, the ache in my body that never seems to go away, or that haunted look that Peeta sometimes gets in his eyes.

After a while, Peeta starts trying to make me laugh again. I am far too serious to make him laugh, but I know that he finds joy in my own. The first time the rolling noise escapes my mouth, I feel like I have broken an unwritten rule. I clap my hand over my mouth, shake my head, and blink at tears. Peeta reaches out and touches the back of my hand – he knows something I don’t. “It’s okay, Katniss,” he promises me, even though it is not – never will be – okay. “She would want you to be happy.”

  **We share our evenings.**

Peeta lies next to me in my bed, curled around my body, keeping me warm. The nights aren’t too cold, even with the window open, but my coldness comes from within rather than without. His arms cradle my head and waist, his stomach presses against my back with every exhale, his leg presses against my calves, his breath ghosts across my neck.

**We dream.**

My nightmares are still terrifying, heavy, accusatory. I wake panicked and guilt stricken, screaming and crying all at once and Peeta is there will soothing words. He murmurs in my ears and brushes my sweaty hair back from my face. After some time, he begins kissing my cheeks, my eyelids, my lips – using his feather light touch to ease the tension out of me.

**We suffer.**

His episodes can come any time of the day, but (luckily for me) do not often come at night. Rarely do I wake to an empty bed. More often, it will be in the middle of the day. I will go to the bathroom and come out to find a faraway look in his eyes, his jaw clenched, and his mind wandering. It is at these times I want nothing more than to go to Peeta. I want to be for him what he is for me – comfort, warmth, ease. But at this juncture, I know I can’t – it would only make things worse. So instead, I stand in silence and watch as he clutches the back of a chair, eyes crushed shut or wide open and searching for something I cannot see, muscles shaking with effort. I watch him suffer and flagellate myself for it later.

**We grow back together.**

The first year will be the hardest, I am sure. There is something better around the corner. I can’t feel it, but I see the hope in Peeta’s eyes when he climbs into bed with me and it is enough.

* * *

 

_Year One_

_“Peeta and I grow back together. (…) I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. (…) So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."_ ( Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins)

We’ve been through one winter and are at the beginning of spring, when everything is still chilled and frost forms on the windows overnight. Even though the night air is cool, Peeta and I still crack the window open every night when we go to bed, so when I wake in the middle of sleep, screaming, the sweat on my skin feels like a sheen of ice. Peeta’s voice is quiet as he presses his lips to my temple. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s not real.”

Prim featured, as usual, heavily in my dream tonight. I’m not ready to talk about it, not yet, but Peeta doesn’t need to know specifics. He knows that my dreams are horrors concocted only in my sleeping mind. I try to quiet my crying, still my quivering muscles, relax in his grip, but my frozen body is wrought with tension. I feel like cold metal: unmoving and untouchable. I lift a hand and press it to his chest, where his heart beats a familiar rhythm: a little faster than usual, likely from being startled awake, but certainly more calm than my own. He looks down at my hand on his skin and smiles that shy smile of his that is easy and gentle, never frightening or overbearing.

Peeta pulls me towards him, pressing my cheek to his collar bone. Our legs are tangled together beneath the comforter but somehow he twists our torsos into a semi-comfortable sitting position. “You’re freezing,” he tells me, running a pacifying hand over my back.

Even though I felt cold before, it is only at his words that my body begins to shiver. “We shouldn’t have left the window open.” I know, as he says it, he’s chastising himself. He moves to get out of bed, likely to shut the window, but I grab the side of his sleep pants to stop him.

“No,” I mutter, my first spoken words since waking, “stay with me. Stay here.”

“You’re so cold,” he says, but nods and wraps his arms around me. There’s silence between us for a moment, no noise other than the steady breaths from Peeta and the slightly erratic ones from me. I’m not sure what he’s thinking about, staring towards one end of the room, but his hands are still reassuringly tight around me and even though my heart is still beating a tattoo against my rib cage, I feel my eyes fluttering shut with fatigue.

Just as I am drifting off, his words wake me. “Do you want to take a bath?”

“Hmmm?” I look lazily up at him, but see little more than the underside of his chin from my vantage point, so close my eyes once more.

“I could run you a hot bath, to warm up.”

I realize at his suggestion that I’m still shivering. I must be colder than I thought. It’s the middle of the night and it feels so strange to bathe for no other reason than warmth, but I remember that this house has running hot water available at the simple turn of a knob. I can take a bath whenever I feel like it, why ever I want. Peeta has ducked his head and is watching me for a response, so I nod slowly, cautiously.

I don’t want him to let go of me, but it would be ridiculous to try and shuffle out of the bed still locked together, and besides, Peeta needs both hands to reattach his prosthetic. He hunches over the side of the bed, picking up the prosthesis from where it leans against his nightstand. While he busies himself with the straps and buckles (they don’t take him long after all of this time) I crawl towards him on the bed, pressing my face to the warmth of his back.

Once he’s finished, he rolls his pant leg back down and stands, turning towards me and taking my hand. I’m not a child, or an invalid. I don’t need to be led to my own bathroom, nor do I need a bath run for me, but I allow Peeta to take my hand and I trail along even though it's a short distance, because in the darkness I find reassurance in his palm.

He sits me on the closed lid of the toilet and begins running the water, testing the temperature with the inside of his wrist. Once it’s to his liking, he puts the stopper in the drain and sits on the lip of the tub, facing me. “Feeling any better?” he asks, even though he can tell I’m not, at least not by much. In the absence of his arms, I’ve wrapped my own around me. I must still be shivering because I can hear the lid of the toilet seat clicking beneath me, jarred by my miniscule movements. The tile of the bathroom floor feels like ice beneath my feet and I can see Prim screaming at me, burning, even though it’s just Peeta and I in the steaming bathroom.

I try to nod, but can’t seem to move, so I just end up staring at him. “Whatever you dreamed about,” he sighs, standing up and stepping towards me, “I promise it isn’t real.” He picks up the end of my braid, half undone from my nightmare induced flailing, and unties the string holding it together. He uses his fingers to loosen my hair, letting it fall to my shoulders. “It’s going to get better,” he promises, and even though it’s hard to believe him, if anyone knows about struggling through nightmares, it’s Peeta Mellark.

He grips the hem of my sleep shirt and looks at me for confirmation. I nod and he pulls it over my head. I feel like a toddler, sitting still, being undressed. The static of my shirt makes my hair go every which way and Peeta smirks at me, smoothing the unruly locks down. He’s a gentleman and never looks anywhere below my collar bone. I know this is for me, and not for him, some selfish, jealous part of my mind says. Because he had no problem looking below Johanna Mason’s collar bone.

Gripping one of my elbows, he helps me stand and uses his free hand to push my sleep shorts off. He’s behind me and couldn’t see much of anything if he wanted to, but I’m sure he’s staring stoically at the back of my head. I don’t need Peeta’s physical support as I clamber into the hot water of the tub, but there’s a line, a tether between his hand and my elbow that’s holding me here and keeping the images of Prim at bay.

I sink into the water and it’s so hot I let out a little gasp, but the heat feels good as the water rises and laps at my belly.

“Too hot?” Peeta asks. He let go of my elbow when I sat down in the tub, and his hands are at the taps, ready to change to temperature of the rushing water.

“Perfect,” I whisper. His face is flushed and his hair is a little damp. I’m only just warming up, but it must be pretty hot in the bathroom. “Thank you.”

He nods and offers that sweet, shy smile that has become one of the few good things I recognize. He turns towards the door. “Well, just call me if you need anything.”

Suddenly, his potential absence causes the panic from earlier to rise in me once more. The water doesn’t feel hot anymore, it feels like I’m sitting in a pool of ice. Words stick in my throat like cotton, and I struggle to get any noise out. Peeta’s already at the door, hand turning the knob, when I manage to make a sound like a squeak.

“Hm?” he asks, turning halfway to look at me, confused.

“Stay,” I plead, the word pulling itself past my lips like frozen molasses.

Peeta doesn’t reply, but nods cautiously. He comes to sit on the floor next to the tub and lines his body up with mine so that our heads are only about a foot or so apart. He leans his head up against the porcelain and closes his eyes, letting out a small contented noise.

We don’t speak. The water runs until the tub is almost overflowing and then I lean forward to turn it off, but other than that there is no sound in the walls of the of the bathroom. Peeta has likely drifted off, uncomfortable as his position may be, because he makes no move when I reach my hand out of the water and run my fingers through his blond hair. The heat of the water, the calm stillness of Peeta slumbering next to me, the silence of the space – all of the things serve to calm my frayed nerves and after some time, I find the shivers have left me and panic behind my eyes has ebbed. My blood runs smoothly through my veins once more and once my skin has begun to prune, I decide it’s time to return to bed. When I stand in the tub, Peeta lifts his head from the side, looking blearily at me. He blinks a few times before looking down, redness staining the back of his neck.

Neither of us speak while I reach for one of the fluffy towels and dry off my skin. He waits in silence while I dry my hair and braid it once more. Peeta pulls the drain and watches the water funnel out of the tub and we go back to bed.

I’m sure he expects me to redress while he removes his prosthetic once more, but I merely drop the towel and climb into bed naked. I’m not sure what drives me to this boldness, but I draw the blanket around myself and watch Peeta as he turns and situates himself under the covers. It’s dark but the moon offers enough light that I can watch his face. He reaches for me, his arm spanning the few feet between us before coming into contact with my bare waist. He looks a little surprised, but maybe thinks that my shirt has merely ridden up. He moves his hand down to my hip and, finding no fabric barrier there either, opens his mouth a little. “Katniss?” he asks me, his voice low and sharp.

“Peeta,” I tell him, and scoot closer so that my knees bump his thighs.

His hand skitters up my side, brushing over my exposed ribcage, past my arm and shoulder, out from under the blankets and onto my cheek. “Katniss?” he asks again. We know more words than each other’s names, but we don’t need them right now.

I nod and turn my head, gently kissing his palm. I move as close as I can to him, my legs between and around his, my chest against his, and he groans at the skin to skin contact. His hand moves from my cheek to my bare back, fingers skittering over the peaks and valleys of my scar tissue and he dips his head to meet my lips. His other hand is trapped beneath my body and I lift myself a little so that he can free it, letting his fingers trail over my freshly braided hair.

I feel no nervousness, even though I have no clue what I’m doing (beyond the kissing) as I let one hand settle on his hips, the waist of his pants. My other hand is wedged between our bodies, pressed against the damp skin of his chest. His heart is hammering against my fingers, flying faster than I’ve ever felt it before. Peeta’s kisses abandon my mouth and move down the side of my chin to my neck and my collar bone. He slides his body down and his groin presses against my thigh.

I feel a familiar hardness against my leg, but now it has more meaning to me. _For me_. I inhale a shaky breath and press my lips to the crown of Peeta’s head.

“Okay?” he asks me, the stubble on his chin scratching the sensitive skin of my breasts.

“Okay,” I say, fingers tracing patterns on his upper back.

He pulls back a little, maneuvering his hips back so that I no longer feel the evidence of his arousal. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You can…” he sighs quietly and kisses my nose. “We can just go back to sleep.”

“Shh,” I say, moving my trapped hand to his ribs, using both hands to pull him close, pressing our bodies together once more. “I don’t want to sleep,” I tell him, and I mean it. I never have to tell Peeta anything I don’t mean.

He looks at me intently for a moment, staring at my face and then shakes his head a little. He dips once more and kisses the tip of one of my breasts. I gasp and arch my back suddenly. Peeta puts one of his hands in the dip of my back and uses the other for balance as he focusses on my nipples. I have never touched this part of my body for any purpose other than dressing or bathing, and the sensation of his lips on such delicate skin is entirely new to me. It’s hard to keep my breath from stuttering as it escapes my lungs, but I don’t want him to think I’m upset and stop.

“I don’t want to sleep,” I repeat quietly, as encouragement. Peeta seems to understand because he rolls me over onto my back, slow, gentle movements and hovers over me. I lay still beneath him, his hips close to mine as he tries to balance on one leg and both arms.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers. Part of me wonders if he meant to say that out loud. He dips his head to kiss my lips once more. I feel a heat, a warmth, begin to suffuse me that has nothing to do with the bath I took. It’s like a coil of fire, starting in my chest and spreading to all of my limbs, my fingers and toes. It doesn’t burn me, but brings a flush to the surface of my skin. I tuck my leg around Peeta’s whole one, my calf fitting in the crook of his knee.

I nudge at his sleep pants with my fingers and he nods, letting me push the fabric away. It pools at his knee, covering my leg, but freeing most of him. We’re still under the blankets, so I can’t see anything, but when Peeta lowers his body to kiss me again, I can feel his bareness against me.

It’s terrifying and reassuring all at once. I’ve known, for a long time, that this would happen. I take comfort in Peeta’s presence in my life and this circumstance is no different. His gentleness, his kindness, his warm glow, like embers instead of fire: these are the things I need. His presence in my bed and in my arms is no different. I need Peeta here, and I need this now.

I’ve never had been intimate with anyone, and I don’t know if Peeta has either, but there’s a lot of fumbling. There’s crushed limbs and more than once we tip over, compensating for Peeta’s lack of balance. There are murmured apologies and little giggles, and then finally, Peeta reaches between us. I want to hold my breath, but something inside of me is telling me to breathe, relax, trust.

When Peeta slides into me, I feel so many sensations at once. There’s the gust of his groan across my chest, the pressure of his muscular arms against my ribs, the scratch of his hair against my stomach, the slide of his legs against my own, and a tight dryness between my legs that causes me to close my eyes and knit my brow.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his breath tight with anxiety. I remember overhearing, in my youth, that once a boy starts, he can’t stop. But Peeta is a still as stone over top of me, muscles shaking with exertion, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s looking at me with more concern than lust, but I can see the effort it’s taking him to stay still.

There’s nothing but discomfort between my legs: dryness, fullness like I’ve never known, and a scratchy feeling. But Peeta’s face brings out a flush on my chest and I remember the sensation of him kissing my nipples, trailing his hand over my abdomen. “It’s fine,” I say. Because he did hurt me, but it’s not important and it is fine. I know this will pass, my mother’s explained the medical aspects of sex, if nothing else.

Peeta moves and the discomfort doesn’t fade, but I’m able to ignore it by watching his face. He closes his eyes, crushing them shut, and tilts his chin down to offer me a slightly sloppy kiss. His muscles are still shaking as he moves himself – a sort of back and forth, up and down motion. He mutters something I can’t hear and opens his eyes a fraction of a second before I feel more warmth inside of me. Peeta frowns, like this wasn’t what he planned and lifts one hand to press it to the open space on my chest, between my breasts.

I lift my hands to his face, fingers cupping his jawbone, thumbs tracing his eyebrows. “It’s okay,” I say, because I know the first words past his lips will be an apology. “It was right.”

“You didn’t enjoy it,” he huffs, tipping his head to one side to kiss the heel of my palm. I can hear his guilt in his words.

“I will,” I reassure him, because there was so much I did enjoy and I know it can only get better. “You’ll see.”

Peeta lets his body drop next to mine and I feel something warm and wet on my skin. He drapes his arm over my stomach and looks very carefully at the side of my face. I turn to make eye contact and see him squinting in the dim light.

“You love me,” he says. “Real or not real?”

I can’t help the small smile when I reach out to press my thumb to his lips. “Real,” I tell him, and I mean it.

 


	2. Year Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta continue to struggle for normalcy and pattern their days after what makes them most comfortable.

_Year Two_

When I return from hunting one afternoon, Peeta is in the living room flipping through a book. He smiles at my presence in the doorway, watches me toe off my boots, and walks over to take my game bag from me so that I can hang up my bow and jacket. I spent longer in the woods today than usual, but Peeta doesn’t say anything. It’s already past midafternoon and he has a small smile on his face as he looks me over.

“Good haul?” he asks, testing the weight of the bag in his hand. There’s a smear of something crusty on his shirt, he’s been icing some sort of baked goods today. I reach out to scratch it off of the fabric of his t-shirt and it flakes off, falling to the floor.

“Alright,” I tell him, walking towards the kitchen. “I caught a turkey.”

“How big?” he asks. He follows me at a slower pace, untying the drawstring so that he can look inside. The turkey is large, probably about 25 pounds of usable meat on it. I’ve already plucked and gutted it, so Peeta is likely greeted with its naked face when he looks in the bag. He drops the package on the table and leans against the surface, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Want to invite Haymitch over for dinner? I could make turkey pot pie.”

I do not want to invite Haymitch over for dinner. He usually comes once every two or three weeks, when he’s sober enough to find his way out of his filthy labyrinth of a house. But Peeta feels sad for him, I can see it in his eyes when we have to go over and feed the geese because Haymitch has been missing for days – he’s worried about our drunken sot of a mentor, even though it should be the other way around. So I nod at Peeta and shove my feet into some shoes before running over to Haymitch’s house.

The man is, surprisingly, out of his house and functioning. He glares at me in the sunshine as I tromp over to his house, eyeing his growing geese warily. I often wonder if he is ever going to let us eat one. Haymitch is on his porch, a bottle next to him but unopened so far as I can tell.

“What do you want?” he asks. He never even bothers to remove the contempt from his voice when he sees me.

“Caught a turkey. Peeta wants you to come over for dinner tonight.”

Haymitch glares at me. He can’t stand me most of the time, aside from our begrudging commiseration over our wretched lives, but he likes Peeta alright, enjoys his company, even, sometimes. He’s realized in the past year that he has to put up with me to be around Peeta, who is, coincidentally, one of the few people in the world that doesn’t mind Haymitch (too much). “When?”

“In a few hours. Peeta’s just getting dinner ready now. Try not to pass out or anything before then,” I tell him, already turning away and heading back to my house. Haymitch doesn’t reply, but I know I’ll see him in my kitchen tonight.

When I get home, I can hear the sounds of Peeta working in the kitchen: a light banging of pots and pans as he takes out what he needs, a quick rush of water, the snap of a knife breaking one of the turkey’s joints. I shove my shoes in the front closet and go to the kitchen. “Need any help?” I ask, but he’s made quick work in my short absence. Chopped vegetable are in a pot, heating to a boil, and Peeta’s cutting the turkey into chunks.

“No, I’m fine,” he says, looking up momentarily to grin at me. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”

“Do I smell?” I ask him and he laughs softly.

“Not bad. But you’ve been out in the woods half of the day. Go on – it won’t hurt.” Part of me wonders if Peeta is trying to be polite and not tell me about some horrible smell emanating from my pores. I stand in the kitchen doorway, watching him put the turkey meat into a pan. “You’ve got blood on you,” he finally tells me, not looking up from his task. I can see his shoulders rise somewhat with tension. “Your arms.”

 _Blood_. Peeta’s episodes have been farther apart and easier to manage with each passing day, but part of that change has come about because we are aware of, and careful to avoid, certain things that might set him off. Blood, pain, anger. I usually wipe myself down at the water spigot in town after gutting an animal, but I didn’t think I got anything on me with the turkey. I look down and see a small amount on my shirt, but there’s a little more coating my arms. I’m surprised he hasn’t said anything yet.

“Okay.” I’m unsure of what to say, so I leave the kitchen and head upstairs.

Our shower isn’t like the ones in the Capitol, and for that I’m grateful. I turn on the water and pull a little pin that switches the flow from the tub faucet to the overhead one and undress while the water heats up. I leave my clothes in a pile on the floor, and step into the claw foot tub. There’s no glass panel or curtain to stop the spray from leaving the confines of the tub, so drops of water land on the floor around me as I step under the stream. I undo my braid while water rushes down my back and chest, turning my head this way and that to revel in the cascade. There’s a small bar of soap on the side of the tub and I pick it up, running it over my pinkish arms, watching the bubbles that form in its wake.

I tip my head back and open my mouth, letting some of the water fall into it. I spit into the tub and massage my hands through my hair. Two years since it was burnt off, patchy and chopped. It’s grown back to almost how long it was before and I twist it around my fingers under the water, working out any sweat or dirt from the last few days.

The bathroom door opens and I jerk my head up to see Peeta letting himself in. He grins at me, a little sheepishly, and closes the door behind him. We’ve seen each other naked enough times, since the first time, but never fully in the stark light of the bathroom and I turn away from him so that my back is facing him. “What is it?” I ask, letting the water rush into my face.

“Just put the pie in,” he says.

“That was fast.”

“I made some pies today, had some left over dough.” I hear him coming closer, hear fabric rustling when he's almost immediately next to the tub. “Mind if I join you?” he asks. Peeta is well practiced. His voice sounds comfortable and confident, almost lazy. But I can hear a small undercurrent of nervousness – we’ve never done this before and he has no clue how I’ll respond.

“No,” I say, surprising even myself. “I don’t mind.”

Peeta undresses slowly: I can hear his shirt dropping onto the pile of my clothes, his zipper rasping before he takes off his pants. After a moment, I turn and see him walking towards the shower, naked and grinning a little foolishly. I’ve never seen him take a shower before and I’m suddenly wondering how he does it with his prosthetic. Does he keep it on? I’m sure it’s water proof, but I also know that he probably needs to wash the part of his leg that it covers. He doesn’t say anything, but answers my question when he sits on the edge of the tub, drops of water hitting his back when they spray off of me. I watch as he unclips the buckle around his thigh, and then the one around his hips. Finally, he pushes a button on the side of the apparatus and it comes away from his leg. He sets it carefully on the floor and looks up at me.

“Mind moving over a bit?” he asks. I step back, towards the shower head and out of his way. He swings his body around so that his leg is in the tub now and stands, leaning against the wall for support. I turn to look at Peeta, not in the darkness of our room at night, not under the blankets, but here, in the light of the bathroom. His torso has a few patches of scarred skin, like mine, once charred and tender, but now thick tissue. He’s gained back all of the weight he lost, muscular and strong like he once was, standing nervously in front of me and watching my face.

“Hey,” he finally says, reaching out with his free hand. He brushes a damp strand of hair back and away from my shoulder. “You sure this is okay?” he asks. Maybe I’ve been studying him too carefully. There’s a light blush on his cheeks, but he looks more worried about me than embarrassed.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, but then I want to change my answer. “I want it.”

I reach up and put my hands in his hair, stepping close to him. I card my fingers through the damp strands while he wraps his arm around me, using my body for support as much as the wall. I press my lips to his cheek and hum, feeling a contentment that I usually try to ignore.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask, pulling back.

Peeta looks down at my body, something he’s certainly seen more than plenty of, but just can’t seem to get enough of. “I don’t want to talk about my day, right now, Katniss.” He dips his head and his supporting arm on the wall slides down as he presses his lips to my clavicle. His tongue gives me a different warmth than the water. His arm around my waist slithers down, he rests his palm on the curve of my backside. My hands around his torso feel inadequate, so I slide them up to his shoulders, knead the muscles where his shoulders and neck join.

“Peeta,” I murmur.

He pulls me close, kissing the exposed skin of my neck, pressing our lower bodies together. I can fell his erection pressing against me, but I know we won’t be able to have sex in the shower, he can’t even really move from where he’s standing. So I step back abruptly. “What?” he asks, looking a little shocked, a little hurt, a lot worried. But I drop to my knees quickly in front of him – this is something I’ve never done before, but I’ve thought about.

I raise my palms to press them against Peeta’s thighs and look up at him. He’s staring down at me with something like awe. “You don’t have to do that,” he tells me, a tentative hand touching the hair on the crown of my head. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I want to.” But I really don’t know what I’m doing. My actions between his legs are timid, I kiss the tip of his penis, draw my tongue along the length of him. I must be doing something right because above me, I hear the familiar, guttural groans that mark Peeta’s pleasure. “I’m not sure what to do,” I finally tell him.

“Just…just keep doing what you’re doing,” he huffs, and I can tell it took some effort to get the words out.

So I use my hands and my mouth, maneuvering around a part of Peeta that I’m entirely unfamiliar with, licking and stroking, alternating when my hand or mouth become tired. The muscles in Peeta’s right leg shake with the effort of holding himself up and eventually, he pushes at my forehead to create a distance between us. I keep holding on to him, the slick heat feeling more comfortable in my hand with every passing moment. “’m gonna finish,” he tells me, a warning. His stomach muscles are tightening and his mouth is open, but his eyes are closed. I know this face.

I stand up and grip his erection in my palm, finish the task I set about to perform. There a rush of warmth on my thigh and for a moment all I hear is Peeta’s labored breathing and the patter of water on our bodies. Finally, he opens his eyes and looks into mine with a renewed clarity. “Thanks,” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. I lean forward to kiss him, feel his free hand on my skin and smile against his lips.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him. I’m not sure how long we’ve been in the shower, but I’m sure the pot pie will need someone’s attention soon. I turn to get out, step out from under the spray of water and grab a towel off of the counter. As I’m drying myself off, Peeta manages to hop forward so that he’s under the water and begins washing his hair.

“I had a good day,” he tells me, when I scoop up our dirty clothes and turn to leave the bathroom. “It was a good day.”

Haymitch comes over for dinner shortly after and he only seems slightly agitated when he sits down at the table. The pie is still steaming on the counter as Peeta cuts into it, taking out slices and dishing them up for us. He sits next to me, his hand on my hand on the table top. Haymitch frowns at us across the space. “You two make me sick,” he mumbles, but stabs his pie with a fork and shovels a mouthful down.

 

* * *

 

 

There are good days, and there are bad days. Today feels like a bad day. The rain is falling in thick, steady sheets outside the window. Even though it’s summer, the air is cool from the relentless assault of precipitation. Peeta and I sit in the door and watch the weather, legs interlaced and knees touching. I look at him and he looks at me and we smile at one another. We have become very good at finding peace in each other.

Lightning strikes a tree in the part of the Victor’s Village that is still rubble and though it doesn’t spark, the proximity startles both of us. Peeta has a hard look in his eyes that tells me I should run, flee from him – but I don’t. Some part of me keeps me seated across from him. His mouth pulls back into a painful grimace. He starts to rise and doesn’t say anything as he stumbles up the stairs. He locks himself in the guest room and doesn’t say anything when I sit outside, squatting in the hallway.

I can barely hear him mumbling on the other side of the door, can’t make out his words or their meaning (and probably don’t want to). When I hurried up after him, I left the front door open and can hear the storm worsening outside. I don’t dare leave him on his own, not while he’s still in there, talking to himself. I hear a quiet sob, muffled – like he tried to stop himself – and the thump of Peeta hitting something.

I press my hand to the door. “Peeta,” I say, feeling the grains of the wood under my cheek. “Peeta, Peeta, Peeta.” I murmur his name quietly, calling him back to me.

After some indeterminable amount of time, Peeta opens the door and gathers me in his arms. His eyes are red rimmed and his muscles are still shaking, but as he kisses me, I know he’s come back.

We go downstairs and close the door, mop up the rain water that snuck in, light a fire, and curl up on the couch together. Peeta is always drained after an episode, and it isn’t long before I find his breaths evening out, the rise and fall of his chest slowing down as he falls asleep. His arm is still around me, his heartbeat steady beneath my temple, and I reach one hand over to lace my fingers with his.

He could sleep the day away like this, in front of the fire, exhaustion taking over him. He doesn’t make any noise, no restless sounds, no worried waking. He simply holds me close, and slumbers.


	3. Year Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guest comes to visit Peeta and Katniss.

_Year Three_

                Snow is falling in large flakes outside the window. I’m alone, sitting in the guest room, where I’ve just finished changing the sheets on the bed. Peeta has slogged through the unfortunate storm to retrieve Delly from the train station. She’ll be our first house guest – other than Haymitch – and she feels like a safe bet. Kind, sweet Delly, who helped bring Peeta back and was one of my greatest defenders in the early days of his recovery. I don’t know where she’s been living or what she’s been up to and a thick feeling of shame washes over me as I adjust the stack of clean towels I’ve put out for her.

                Likely, Peeta has kept in touch and knows everything there is to know about her. He’s good for things like that – he’s the one who keeps me updated on my mother’s life, on what Gale is doing in District 2. The only people I’ve been able to stomach talking to on my own are Johanna and Annie, and even those conversations are few and far between. Peeta was the one who suggested we have Delly for company; his argument was sound. I still can’t leave District 12 and I am tired of seeing the same few faces day in and day out. When I go into town, I only know a small portion of the people who returned and with the exception of Greasy Sae, I wouldn’t call any of them friends. It will be good to see a friendly face around the house for a while, and though I resisted, I know Peeta’s right.

                I’m worried about them coming back from the train station, though. It’s a short enough walk, maybe twenty minutes, but the storm is getting worse with each passing minute. I wish there was some way to contact Peeta and see where he was, but I have nothing to do other than worry. Eventually, I force myself to leave the guest room and close the door, walk into the kitchen and check on the casserole. I’m not a bad cook, per say, but Peeta’s certainly better. He made the dish before he left and told me to take it out after an hour. It’s only been forty minutes, but I still open the oven to see the cheese bubbling and browning on top. Delly will be much happier that he cooked her “Welcome back to 12” meal than if I had.

                After checking on the casserole, which is doing just fine on its own, I decide to go over to Haymitch’s before the weather gets any worse. Likely he doesn’t have any firewood stored up and would let himself freeze to death if left completely to his own devices. I pile a few logs in my arms and kick the door shut behind me as I leave. The snow is almost so thick that I can’t see the house next door, but I know my path well enough. I duck my head to keep the barrage of snow crystals from attacking my face and trudge the short distance to my ex-mentor’s house. I don’t bother knocking: just let myself in before dropping the pile of firewood onto the floor.

                “Haymitch?” I call, hoping to wake him from whatever stupor he may be in without actually having to enter his house. When he doesn’t respond, I take off my hat but don’t bother with my shoes. I’m probably cleaning the place by bringing water inside, anyhow. I search the main floor to no avail and begrudgingly make my way upstairs. “Haymitch, I brought you some firewood.” I’m yelling and stomping loudly – if there’s any part of him that’s not passed out, he can’t have missed my presence in the house.

                But there’s no response, so I start swinging doors open: turning the knobs and pushing them forcefully away from myself. Every room seems to have been marked by Haymitch: dirty dishes, worn clothing, piles of what I hope isn’t but think may be vomit. I finally find him in the bathroom, collapsed next to the toilet and snoring. If I ever think my life is sad, the comparison to the man a few doors down makes me feel downright chipper. I kick one of his extended legs and wait for a response. He continues to snore and so I kick harder and yell his name. “Haymitch, wake up!”

                Finally he rouses, snorting and flailing. He must have dropped his knife somewhere because his right hand, usually his defence, waves about uselessly empty. “What’re you doing here?” he slurs, letting his head fall back onto the toilet seat.

                “There’s a blizzard outside,” I mutter, turning to look in the mirror. It’s cracked and filthy and I’m unable to see anything of consequence in the reflection. “I brought you some firewood. Come downstairs and I’ll set a fire for you.”

                “Why don’t you just mind your own business, sweetheart?” he asks me and I want to slap him. I try to think of what Peeta would do in a situation like this. I recognize for what feels like the millionth time that there’s no way I’ll ever be as altruistic as him.

                “I’m going to go light a fire in the living room. You may want to stumble down there eventually to make sure your house doesn’t burn down.” I don’t wait for an answer, just turn from the bathroom and leave Haymitch alone.

                It takes a few minutes to get a fire going in his abandoned fire place, but once the logs are crackling, I throw the rest in a pile next to the couch so he can keep it going if he’s still awake. “I’m leaving now,” I yell as I crush my hat back onto my head. “Try not to die.” I think that I hear a mumbled “Fuck you,” from up the stairs, but I can’t be sure. When I get back outside, I wonder momentarily where Haymitch’s geese are. It’s too cold for them to be out on their own and if he had coerced them into his house, surely I would have heard them squawking. A momentary vision of them filling an empty Victor’s home makes me giggle – geese sitting on the regal furniture, droppings on the varnished wood floor. I hope they’re alive and well, somewhere warm, because I was planning on eating one for my birthday dinner.

                I tromp through the snow back to my house and let myself in. The clean smell of the living room mixed with the savory casserole cooking in the oven offers me some sorely needed relief after the stench of Haymitch’s house. Peeta and Delly should be back soon, and I can’t help the pit of concern in my stomach. I need something to distract my mind, but I’m not like Peeta. I don’t like to draw or paint or bake. The things that take my mind away are all outside and right now I feel trapped in my house.

                I decide to dig out an old chess board that Prim and I used to play with when the weather was bad for days. I was never very good – more an in the moment fighter than a strategizer. But Prim was very talented at the game, always making her moves and planning ten steps ahead. I swallow the lump in my throat as I set up the board, thoughts of her making me simultaneously happy and miserable. I push the King into his position and wonder if, perhaps, this wasn’t the best thing to do before having company. I decide to light a fire before I start, even though the oven is keeping the house plenty warm. It gives my shaking hands something to do as I pile the logs and shove in some kindling. I hope Peeta gets back soon – I can feel the ghost of his arms around my shoulders and suddenly long for his presence.

                Once the fire is lit, I argue with myself about whether I should try to play chess or simply put the board away. All of the pieces are set up and as I’m staring anxiously at the board, Buttercup mewls from the staircase. It’s almost as though that cat is taunting me. He’s rarely ever in the house, usually preferring to be away from me, hunting for his own meals and surviving most of the ugly weather. He only returns when it’s really atrocious outside. Once, I went into Prim’s room on an awful whim and found him curled into a ball on her bed. I have no clue how he got in there, but I slammed the door so quickly and so loudly, I must have startled him out the way he came.

                I feel like his presence on the stairs is supposed to be telling me something, but I can’t figure out what. In an angry huff, I begin sweeping the tiny game pieces back into their wooden storage box. I’m about to shout or slam something when the front door opens and Peeta and Delly rush in. They’re covered in white, glistening ice and in the heat of the house, snowflakes are already melting into fat drops of water on Peeta’s eyelashes. Delly lets out a grateful moan, likely happy to be in the warmth after making the journey through the snow. I get up and take her coat while Peeta hangs his up and sets Delly’s bag on the stairs. He kisses my cheek softly and everything feels normal for a moment.

                “How was your trip?” I ask Delly, ushering her into the living room. The chess board is still on the coffee table with its little box sitting on top. No one will ever need to know that I just almost indulged in a moment of rage. Delly sits gently on the sofa, barely making any noise. There is already a large smile on her face and it looks and feels so genuine. Delly makes every person feel like they are the most important to her, and she is happiest to see them. It must be exhausting and I often find myself wondering how she does it.

                I drop into one of the armchairs and Peeta comes up behind me, letting a soft hand fall onto my shoulder. “I’m frozen to my bones,” he says, “I’ll make some tea. You ladies want some?” I nod and Delly says please and thank you. When Peeta leaves for the kitchen, Delly grins at me.

                “My trip was lovely, thank you for asking. The trains are so beautiful and the scenery looks so gorgeous. Thank you for having me. I’m sure it will be wonderful seeing 12 once the storm passes.”

                “How long are you staying?” I ask, trying not to sound rude. I’m sure that Peeta told me at some point, but it’s likely I wasn’t paying attention.

                “Probably a week,” Delly says with a nervous smile. “I promise I’ll stay out of your hair. As soon as the weather’s nice enough, I plan to spend most of my time seeing everyone who’s come back.”

                I can hear Peeta moving around in the kitchen, filling the kettle and plunking it on the stove. “Where are you living right now?” I ask, hoping that this isn’t something I should know. I never knew Delly very well, and making small talk has never been a strong suit of mine. Hopefully, her home and job will be safe topics to discuss right now.

                “District 8,” she says, her confident smile from earlier returning. She pulls her feet up under herself on the couch and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been helping with some of the clothing designs there. I mean, we’re really just rebuilding the nation, but,” she shrugs and ducks her head, “it’s nice to make something people like, you know?”

                I really don’t know, but I nod my head. It sounds like Delly enjoys what she’s doing, and that’s so rare these days that I think it’s definitely a good thing. Peeta re-enters the living room. “Any requests?” he asks. I blink at him and find myself grinning. Quiet nights with Peeta are common, being alone with Peeta is familiar to me, but it’s pleasant seeing him around other people, too. He’s in his element, hosting a guest and he shines as he lists off the different tea sachets we have for Delly to choose from. I end up with peppermint and Delly goes for elderberry. Peeta brings our mugs out first and then comes to sit on the arm of my chair, his thigh pressing against my shoulder.

                There are few people in the world with whom I am comfortable being in such close physical proximity to, but the feeling of Peeta’s leg against me offers only warmth. I get the urge to let my head fall on his rib cage, but think that might be inappropriate for Delly’s first night around us. Peeta talks with her about where some of their old merchant friends have ended up, the few who made it out of the bombing. They discuss her job in 8 in more detail, talk about Annie’s beautiful baby boy, discuss the plans to build a medicine factory in 12. I listen with a mild sort of interest, sipping my tea, content not to add anything to the conversation. Once my mug is empty, Peeta shifts next to me.

                “I should check on dinner,” he announces, reaching down to take the mug out of my hands. “Katniss managed to get us some venison,” he announces proudly. "We used the ground meat for a casserole."

                “Do you want to get cleaned up?” I ask Delly. “Travelling on those trains always makes me feel like a shower.”

                Delly smiles gratefully. “That would be lovely.” I take her upstairs and show her the bathroom, explain the faucets and leave her with her bag.

                Peeta is in the kitchen, drying our mugs when I rejoin him. “Hey,” he says, hanging the last mug on its hook. “You okay? You were pretty quiet in there.”

                “Mhm. I was just thinking.”

                “It’s nice to have a guest who’s not half drunk and trying to fight with you the whole time,” Peeta jokes.

                I groan agreeably. “I took some firewood over to Haymitch before the storm got too bad. He was not pleased to see me.”

                Peeta pulls the casserole out of the oven and tips the pan sideways to see how much the food in it shifts. We are both equally capable of handling duties in the kitchen, but we seem to easily fall into our respective roles of huntress and “person who doesn’t kill things” most of the time. I watch Peeta set the casserole down and take some plates out of the cabinet, setting the stack on the counter top. I feel a quiet sense of ease drape over my shoulders like a shawl. Having kind, gentle, normal, mentally sane Delly in our house reminds me just how far Peeta and I have come over the years. Something like pride manages to swell in my chest before I can push it back down.

                “The weather was awful,” Peeta says. There’s no need to fill the silence, but it’s nice to hear his voice over the howling wind outside and the crackling fire within. “I honestly didn’t know if Delly and I would even be able to find our way back. We thought we might have to stay in another house for the night.”

                I snort and drop into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Were you just planning on commandeering someone’s home?”

                Peeta looks at me quizzically. “Do you think they wouldn’t have let us stay?”

                I shake my head. No one in their right minds would turn Peeta or Delly away. If it had been me stuck out in the storm, that would have been a different story. Peeta wipes the sink out and I listen to the water shut off upstairs, Delly’s footsteps as she leaves the bathroom and goes back to the guest room.

                “I’m glad you made it back home safely,” I say lamely, after a moment.

                “Me, too. I would have felt bad if Delly’s first night here was spent sleeping on someone’s living room floor.”

                “I would have worried about you,” I concede. This is not something I need to say to Peeta, but I say it anyways.

                Peeta shakes his head and some of his hair, still damp and curly from the snow, shakes loose. “I wouldn’t have had to worry about you, Katniss.” He grins up at me and then looks to the door.

                Delly has rejoined us, looking pink and fresh from her shower. “It’s been a while since I’ve used one of those,” she says, likely referencing something in the bathroom. “My apartment in 8 still just has a tub.”

                “You live in an apartment?” I ask, kicking a chair out from the table for her to sit down.  There aren’t any apartments in 12, and though I’ve seen some in the Capitol, I didn’t know any of the districts had large enough population to warrant them.

                “Yes,” Delly says, taking the seat. “There’s a few complexes above the textile mills, likely to save space in the past, I would think. I live there with my girlfriend.”

                Peeta looks up from his task momentarily, blinks at me, and then goes back to dishing out the casserole with a mild hum. “Your…girlfriend?” It’s hard for me to imagine Delly romantically involved with anyone, sweet and innocent as she is, but then imagining her with a woman feels more appropriate than a man. “What’s she like?” I ask. Delly brings out a part of me I’m not used to, a part that’s willing to get to know people and invest in them. I still don’t imagine we’ll be best friends or that I’ll be making any calls to District 8 any time soon, but I am more than content to listen to her as she describes her partner.

                “She came from District 4, but left when a storm destroyed her family’s house.” I nod at Delly to continue. Peeta’s finished dishing out or dinner and puts our plates in front of us. Before sitting down, he pulls out some glasses and a bottle of liquid. I’m not interested in drinking alcohol, not after my experience before the Quarter Quell – just the thought of it makes my stomach clench. But Peeta pours us all a glass of the yellow liquid and places one in front of Delly and I each. “Thank you,” she says politely.

                I sniff it and stare at Peeta with disdain.

                “Try it,” he says, sipping from his own glass. “You’ll like it.”

                I lift the glass to my mouth and continue sniffing it – tart and fruity, nothing like the pungent smell of Haymitch’s white liquor. I take a tentative sip and it’s sweet, much in the same way of the strawberry juice that Prim and I used to make when the fruit was bountiful. It’s not bad, so I take a larger swallow and set my glass down. Delly grins at me and I shift my head, encouraging her to continue. Peeta sits down next to me at the table and bumps his foot against mine.

                “She’s tall, and has dark, beautiful hair – like yours Katniss: it’s very long. But she normally wears it in a bun. She’s extremely smart and sometimes I wonder why she’s wasting her time with me.” Delly blushes and ducks her head, taking a sip of the drink.

                “Don’t say that,” Peeta admonishes her. “Anyone would be lucky to have you!”

                The evening progresses in much the same way, Delly telling us about in her life in 8, listening to Peeta’s updates about the progress 12 has been making (I don’t have much to say, since the majority of my time is spent _outside_ of the fence), drinking the sweet alcohol, laughing and trying to avoid any sort of reminiscing. That’s what we have to do, I think, while Peeta and I are clearing the dishes, we have to keep looking forward. Because looking back only drives us insane.

                I tell Peeta that I’ll wash the dishes so that he can spend some time with Delly, she is – after all – really _his_ guest. They sit in the living room and chatter back and forth while I swish water around the sink, letting my breath sync with the smooth motions of wash, rinse, dry. I was concerned about having Delly come to stay, but so far her first night has been nothing outside of pleasant. I hope that her visit stays that way – I have a knack for messing these sorts of things up.

                Once the dishes are all dried and put away, I go to join Peeta and Delly in the living room but find him by himself. “She was tired from the trip,” he tells me, throwing some sand on the fire to put it out. “So she turned in.”

                I walk up to him, wrap my arms around his neck and feel him react, holding my waist tightly. “I’m ready for bed, too,” I tell him, letting my cheek rest on his shoulder. Peeta purrs quietly in my ear and I can’t help but laugh. “No, really,” I say, pulling back to grin at him, “I’m tired. It feels like it’s been a long day.”

                Peeta sighs but shrugs and goes around the room, clicking off the lamps. I head up before him, undress and slide into bed. He follows shortly after, climbing under the covers and wrapping his arms around me. He shifts my hair around with his nose, finding the sensitive patch of skin behind my ear and kisses me. “Goodnight, Katniss,” he says, tightening his hold on me for a short second. “I love you.”

                I lower one hand and pet his clasped hands at my waist. It’s still snowing outside, heavy and thick and beautiful in the moonlight. The window is open a crack and I hope Delly is warm and comfortable in her bed. Peeta sighs behind me, shifts his legs and turns his hand over so that our palms touch. I lace our fingers together on my stomach, close my eyes and drift.

 

* * *

  

                When I wake in the morning, it’s difficult to tell the time of day. Outside the window, there’s a grey sort of overcast blanketing the freshly fallen snow. Peeta isn’t in bed and his side of the mattress isn’t even warm, so I must have slept pretty late. I can hear muffled noises downstairs, like the occupants are trying to be quiet and not disturb me. It feels like the kind of day that would be better spent in bed than out of it, but I’m pretty sure Peeta would tell me it was rude to ignore Delly for an entire day, especially since it’s her first one here. After a few minutes, I manage to convince myself to leave the warmth of my bed. The floor is cold under my feet and I have fight the urge to crawl back into the nest of blankets.

                I’m sure it would be more appropriate to shower and dress in day clothes before going downstairs, but instead I pull on one of Peeta’s shirts and pair of sleep pants, tugging on a few pairs of socks before I head down. I re-braid my mess of hair as I descend the stairs. The living room is empty, but I find both of the house’s other occupants in the kitchen, giggling while Peeta scrambles eggs on the stove. I’m surprised enough to grunt when I see Haymitch at the table – he may be slumped over the scrubbed wood, but he managed to travel over here through at least two feet of snow and it’s pretty early in the morning, so I feel like he’s accomplished something important today.

                “Morning, sweetheart,” Haymitch says grumpily, without looking up.

                “What’re you doing here?” Delly glances at me nervously. I forget she’s not used to the sharpness Haymitch and I find comfort in.

                “You didn’t bring over enough wood. Fire went out.”

                Peeta puts a plate of eggs in front of Haymitch and at an empty seat at the table. “Morning,” he says, to me. “Hungry?”

                I’m not that hungry – I usually eat very little when I first wake up, but I decide to sit and eat the eggs he’s prepared for me anyways. The kitchen is warm and the company feels like a moderately appropriate replacement for the cozy blankets I abandoned upstairs. “Any plans for today?” I ask the room at large. Mine will consist of being lazy, I think.

                “Well, I had hoped to give Delly a tour of the part of 12 that’s been rebuilt, but that’s definitely not going to happen today. What do you think?” Peeta asks Delly.

                “I’ve always wished I could bake as well as you do,” Delly says. You can’t even dislike her, because her honey sweet compliments drip with honesty. “Maybe you could show me a few tricks today.”

                Peeta and I _never_ bake together. We tried once and it ended with bandaged skin and burnt buns. It was a bad day after that and neither of us have ever broached the topic again. Very occasionally, I am happy to sit with him while he ices his baked goods, but beyond that, baking is a thing that is all his own – and my burnt forearms and wounded pride are perfectly happy to leave it that way. He glances at me anxiously, and I grant him an almost imperceptible nod.

                And so the week passes. It snows more, Peeta and Delly bake and paint, I teach her how to knit a scarf, we cook and drink more of the sweet liquor, Haymitch comes and goes, passes out in the basement, avoids his cold home, I try not to be jealous of the laughter coming from the kitchen and try to stay out of bed. Delly’s company makes me happy and sad, and a little bit jealous all at once. I don’t want to pay attention to any of those feelings, so I spend a fair amount of time tucked out of sight, but neither Peeta nor Delly say anything. Perhaps they think I’m like Haymitch, sleeping something off in the comfort of a private space.

                After seven days of her company, I am pleased to see Delly go. She’s been the epitome of a perfect house guest, and I encourage her to bring her girlfriend next time she comes to visit. (“Of course! She had to work, just couldn’t get away, but I’ll convince her somehow next time. You’d just love her, Katniss.” _I’m sure I would._ ) The snow’s let up enough in that last few days that I’m not too worried about Peeta making the journey to and from the train station, but I still watch with some apprehension as they walk down the path, away from the house, Peeta carrying Delly’s bag and Delly’s hands waving as she tells him a story.

                When Peeta gets home, about an hour and a half later, I’m lying on the couch wrapped in a blanket. Haymitch is back at his house: sent away with an armful of wood. Peeta takes his time hanging up his coat and scarf, placing his shoes neatly in the closet before he comes over to kneel in front of the couch. He reaches out to touch my jaw and his fingers are cold from the wind outside. There’s a sadness that’s been building in me since Delly’s first day here. I don’t know where it’s come from or why it’s there, but it's heavy enough in my chest that I feel like someone’s glued me to the couch. Now that our house guest is gone, there’s no façade to keep up – I feel relieved that I don’t need to be a hostess any longer, unsure that I would have made it another day.

                “Hey,” Peeta says. The look on his face tells me he knows what's going on. The corners of his mouth turn down a little, an expression that can mean concern, joy, or sadness, depending on his eyes. I duck my chin to my chest and let him fiddle with my hair. “It’s just us now,” he says. I nod silently, feel inappropriate and pointless tears pricking my eyes. I don’t want to cry – there is no cause to. Peeta uses the pad of his thumb to wipe a drop of moisture from my face. He rubs my upper arm vigorously and then adjusts the blanket around me.

                He rises swiftly and, unexpectedly, tucks his arms under me, lifting me off of the couch. I’m shocked, but can’t find the energy to say anything, so I stare at him. “We won’t have any more company for a while,” he promises me, carrying me up the stairs, cautious not to trip over the blanket dragging on the ground. “It’ll just be you and me.” Peeta lays me on the bed and takes off his sweater, dropping it onto the chest at the end of the bed. He undoes his belt, shucks his pants and curls next to me on the bed, tucking himself under the blanket with me. He twists his arms around me and kisses me when I start to cry.

                There’s a part of me that feels foolish, unaware of why I’m crying. But another part feels empty and lost, angry at Peeta but longing for him to stay and hold me, too. I don’t know how to express anything, so I close my eyes and huff a wet breath in his face. He continues to hug me until I fall asleep, because that’s what Peeta and I do. We take care of one another.


	4. Year Five, Part A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss' travel ban is finally lifted, but with her freedom comes the appearance of some unwanted ghosts.

_Year Five - Part A_

                “So, what do you think?” It’s difficult, but I manage to scowl at Peeta, who’s _this close_ to literally jumping for joy. He has a wide grin on his face and a letter in his hand from President Paylor. My travel ban has been lifted. After five, seemingly short years, I’m finally free to travel anywhere in Panem, as long as I report in Dr. Aurelias every other day and have a chaperone travelling with me. Peeta wants to take this opportunity to go somewhere, to do something and a part of me wonders if he’s felt more trapped than he let on in the past half-decade.

                “Where do you want to go?” I ask, reaching out to take the official looking document from him. It came in the mail about two weeks ago and I couldn’t be bothered to open it. Peeta finally got tired of waiting and cracked the seal to peer inside. I can tell he’s pleased with himself.

                “We could go visit Annie,” he says, looking thoughtful. She’s certainly a safe bet and I know Peeta would love to see her son in person after years of grainy photographs.

                I agree with Peeta that we should go to District 4, even if I’m not sure it’s the best course of action. The past five years have gone quickly, but I feel safer here in District 12 than I ever have anywhere else, even with the nightmares and Peeta’s occasional episodes. I’m aware that most of my security comes from Peeta’s presence, though, and as he’ll be taking this journey with me, I steel myself for the trip. I know that I can do this.

                Peeta and I file the petition with the Capitol for a chaperone together. We specifically request Haymitch, knowing that he would leave us alone during the trip and that if we left him here, we’d be worried about his self-imposed solitary confinement, and what he might do to himself with no one to check in on him. Our request is denied and we’re informed that an appointed chaperone will arrive within two weeks. Peeta calls Annie and apologizes for the short notice, but asks if we might come to visit her in two weeks’ time. Annie is effusive in her joy at the potential to have guests. She tells Peeta and me that absolutely, under no circumstances should we book a hotel. She will prepare her guest room for us and we should stay as long as we want. I worry about leaving Haymitch, but Peeta says we’ll probably just go for a week or so because he still has the bakery to run here.

                The two weeks before our appointed chaperone arrives pass quickly. I continue hunting – other than packing and stocking Haymitch’s house with plenty of food, I have little to do to prepare. But Peeta has to make sure all of the orders are placed for the bakery’s train deliveries, divvy up his usual shifts between his few employees, and make sure that someone will be around to deliver the day old bread to the families who can’t afford the fresh stuff. He looks more stressed than I’ve seen him in years and I’m surprised when we reach the end of the fortnight and he hasn’t had a single episode yet.

                The morning of the day that our chaperone will arrive, Peeta and I enjoy a large breakfast with a slightly drunken Haymitch. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, Peeta’s delicious cheese buns, hot chocolate: the table is brimming with food and we chat more animatedly than usual. Perhaps I am not the only one with some concerns about this trip.

                “You could still come with us,” Peeta says, for what feels like the hundredth time since we first asked Haymitch. “We could buy a ticket at the station. It’d be nice to get out of 12 for a while.”

                “Thanks, but no thanks kid.” Haymitch lifts his mug to his lips and takes a deep swallow – I’m positive his drink is more liquor than coffee. “I have no interest is taking that train anywhere, ever again. Besides, who would look after the geese?”

                “Those geese have looked after themselves for years and you know it,” Peeta argues. “But I won’t ask again.” He sounds slightly resigned and I know he’s just worried about Haymitch killing himself while we’re gone. We can phone and check up on him daily, but he’s unlikely to answer most days and no one else in District 12 even has a phone.

                We’re just clearing the table when someone knocks on the door. Three precise, short raps against the wood. “I’ll get it,” Peeta says, setting his stack of dishes by the sink. I drop my mug into the soapy water and follow him to the front room. Haymitch stays where he is at the table, staring at his coffee like it’s done him some personal wrong.

                Peeta opens the door and sucks in a breath before I can see who’s on the other side to cause his surprise. He swings it all the way open and I’m greeted by a shock of purple hair, bobbing in a very ostentatious style above a heavily made up face. 

                “Peeta, Katniss, it’s been far too long!” Effie Trinket's hands reach out and her silver gloves just hover on the outside of Peeta’s face before she steps in. She comes over to me with two quick strides (I still don’t understand how she walks so gracefully in those high heels) and pecks me on each cheek. “Of course when I was informed that you two needed a chaperone, I was the first to volunteer. Unfortunately it means that I won’t be able to attend the party of the year, but family comes first.” She continues babbling on about the party and I’m momentarily struck by how much of a divide there still is between the Capitol and my district. Things are getting better here, definitely, but it will be a long time yet before we have the party of the year in District 12.

                It seems like nothing will stop Effie’s speech until Haymitch shuffles into the front room. Effie stops mid-word and stares a little, open mouthed for about five seconds before she remembers her manners. “Oh, Haymitch, how are you? It’s very good to see you as well!” She walks up to him and kisses him on the cheek. “Are you coming with Katniss and Peeta? It will be just like old times.” The three of us surrounding her make the same sour face and Effie seems to realize exactly what she’s said that’s so offensive. “Just the good parts, of course,” she rectifies, her apology clear in the arch of her eyebrows.

                “I wasn’t planning on it, no,” Haymitch says. His lack of the usual terse “no” makes me wonder if now that Effie’s here, Haymitch is considering changing his answer.

                “Well, there’s still time to change your mind!” Effie claps her hands. “We’ll get you a ticket at the station. It’s settled then. Run on home and pack a bag!” She doesn’t leave Haymitch any room to argue, guiding him out the front door in his bare feet with our mug still in his hand. He glances back at me through the door with a look of irritated concern on his face. I have just a second to shrug and smirk before Effie closes the door in his face.

                “We were just cleaning up from breakfast,” Peeta says, leading Effie into the kitchen. “Would you like anything to eat?”

                “No, no thank you.” Effie doesn’t want to be rude, but she’s definitely used to eating food of a finer quality than my half burnt pancakes. “I already ate on the train.”

                “Katniss and I weren’t expecting you so early,” he says, grinning to show he’s not upset. “We haven’t finished packing yet. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea, something to drink, while we finish up? We won’t be long.”

                Effie shakes her head and tugs a small notebook out of her bag. “Don’t you worry about me, I’ve got plenty of scheduling conflicts to straighten out. I’ll keep myself busy. Just let me know when you’re ready to go.”

                The train won’t leave for another four hours, so Peeta and I weren’t expecting our chaperone for a while. We haven’t even _started_ packing. I follow his loud footsteps up the stairs to our bedroom and pull out a duffle bag. Peeta still has the same suitcase he used for our first time in the arena: small and leather, just enough space for two pairs of trousers, a few shirts, a pair of pajama pants, and some underwear. I watch him pack from the edge of the bed: it would be useless for the two of us to try and pack at the same time, we’d just get in one another’s way.

                “Do you want to put anything in my bag?” I ask him as he snaps the small case shut. “There’s not too much room in there.” Peeta shakes his head. “I just hope you can wash your clothes at Annie’s then,” I mutter, shoving a few pieces of clothing into my bag. I’m not a dress wearing person, so my bag is full of trousers and shorts when something urges me to pack one dress. It’s buttercup yellow with lace trim, buttons down the back. It was a gift from Peeta last year, not something I’d necessarily pick out for myself, but I know that he loves it and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me wearing it at some point on our “vacation”. Once I’ve put my toothbrush into the side pocket of the duffle bag, I zip the thing shut and shoulder it.

                “That didn’t take too long,” I tell Peeta, but he reaches out to slip the bag off of my shoulder and drops it to the floor next to his suitcase. “What?” I ask him, but he simply takes my hand and tugs me to sit next to him on our bed.

                I look at him, concerned that something must be wrong – is he upset about something I did or didn’t say to Effie? “Katniss, I know how nervous you must be,” he says, smoothing comforting circles over the sensitive flesh between my thumb and the rest of my hand. “I feel nervous: so much of this reminds me of the last three times we left District 12. But this is for a good reason and it’s going to be a great trip. I just don’t want you to…I don’t know, freak out and run.”

                I give Peeta a good hard stare for a long moment. I want to be sure he understands how ridiculous it is to think I would run, at least from him. “How long has it been since you got back to District 12, Peeta?”

                “What?” Now it’s his turn to be confused.

                “How long?”

                “Um, I guess it’s been something like five years, ten months and…four days.”

                I blink. I certainly did not expect that level of precision. “Okay. And how long has it been since I ran away from you?”

                “Around five years and four months?” Peeta’s inflection says it’s a question he’s asking, but he knows that he’s right.

                “You’re not getting rid of me with something as little as a train ride, Peeta Mellark, not after all we’ve been through.”

                Peeta lets himself grin a goofy grin and leans forward to kiss me, the divot in the mattress pressing our hips together. “I love you, Katniss Everdeen,” he tells me, playing with my braid for a moment.

                “I love you, too.” I rise from the mattress and take his hand once more. “Let’s go face our fears.”

~

                As it turns out, our fears about the familiarity of the journey were pretty unfounded. Other than the company we keep, our trip to District 4 will in no way resemble our previous train rides. Effie, Haymitch, Peeta and I will share a train car with two sets of bunk beds and one small bathroom. The trip will be made quickly, with only short stops for passengers to depart in each district. We should be in District 4 in no more than eight hours, so there will be little call to sleep other than boredom. There is a central dining car for everyone who is on the train and lunch is included in the cost of our tickets. Shortly after the train departs, Haymitch leaves for the dining car. I’m sure we won’t see him again until the train stops in District 4.

                Other than the sound of the train moving along the tracks, there’s nothing in our car to remind me of the past, so I sit down on the bottom bunk on one side of the car while Effie settles into the lone chair. I lay back and rest my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and begin to hum. After a few moments, Effie murmurs, “That’s nice, Katniss.” So I continue until the swaying of the train car lulls me into a light sleep.

                Peeta shakes me away a few hours later. He grins at me and holds out a plate with a tuna sandwich and some grapes. “You want some lunch?” he asks. He’s got a drink in his other hand.

                “Did you already eat?” I ask. He shakes his head and gestures with his elbow to another plate of food on the side table.

                “Effie and Haymitch are in the dining car. I thought you wouldn’t mind a little privacy.” Sometimes, Peeta’s better at reading me than I am at reading myself. I nod my thanks and pull my feet up so that he can sit on the end of the bunk, ducking his head a little to avoid hitting the bed above.

                “Are you excited to see Annie?” I ask, biting into the soft, white bread of the sandwich. It feels too fluffy in my mouth, doesn’t offer any of the same substantial density of Peeta’s usual loaves. But the tuna salad is delicious and I savor the flavor of it before swallowing.

                “Yes,” Peeta says, his eyes lighting up. “And I can’t wait to see Marinus.” Annie’s son will be just over four – he’s talked to Peeta on the phone a few times, telling “Uncle Peeta” about his trips along the beach with his mother, finding shells and delighting in the ocean in a way that only a child can. Phone calls only give Peeta so much to hold onto and I know with every passing moment he grows more and more anxious to finally meet Marinus in person.

                Peeta’s smile falters for a moment and he reaches out to brush a crumb from my face. “Katniss,” he breathes, nervous. I know what he’s going to say and I want to stop him: to hold off the inevitable argument, but I’m in the middle of chewing and he speaks before I can swallow. “Do you ever think about…if you might want to?” We’ve talked about this before, a few times. I _hate_ this conversation. I do not want children, not now, not ever. And it _kills me_ to tell Peeta over and over again and watch him crumble a little more inside. I know there will always be a small part of him that holds onto hope, and I hate killing more of that off every time he brings it up. But I will not lie to Peeta.

                “No,” I say, and even though he had to be expecting the answer, he face falls – just a little. “No, I don’t want children, Peeta. You know that. What kind of a mother would I make?”

                “A wonderful one,” he says. His voice cracks and he shakes his head. “You’d be an amazing mother. You were so good to…and you were just a child, yourself. Think about it, you’re older now with more than you need. You’d be perfect.” Peeta tactfully avoids saying Prim’s name, just like we do any other time and reaches out to cup my bent knee, smoothing his hand in circles over the fabric of my trousers. “I’m sorry,” he shakes his head and picks up a lonely grape. “I shouldn’t have brought that up, it was unfair of me.”

                I feel heavy guilt pressing on my chest and there’s nothing I can think of to remove the pressure, so I set my mostly empty plate on the floor and scoot towards Peeta, bending my knees into a mostly uncomfortable position. I take his face in my hands and kiss him slowly, trying to convey how much I love him and need him and how I _know_ that he would be a perfect father, even if he’s abysmally wrong about my parenting skills. Peeta sets his plate to the side and cups the back of my head, tilting us back towards my pillow. We’re in an awkward position, since he had been perpendicular to me before, but we manage to continue kissing like that for a few moments before the door opens.

                Effie gasps loudly. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude, I just – “

                Peeta and I both sit up quickly, smoothing out our clothes and trying not to look like kids who got caught with their hands in the cookie jar. “No, it’s fine, Effie. Don’t worry about anything,” Peeta says, picking up his plate and glaring at his sandwich. “We were just finishing our lunch.”

                A few hours later, we’re getting into a vehicle that will deliver us to Annie’s house. District 4 is much larger than 12, and the distance is too far to walk, while a car ride will only take about 45 minutes. Effie, Peeta, and I squeeze into the back seat while Haymitch makes himself comfortable in the front.

                “So,” Effie says, pulling out her day timer. Even when we’re on vacation, she seems to have a plan for Peeta and I. “My job is just to check in with you a few times a day, see what you’re up to and where you’re going. So I’ll be staying at a hotel about five minutes from Victor’s Lane. I’ll give you the number so you can call me if you need anything. I’m sure that all three of you will behave and I know I have nothing to worry about at all.” She scrawls a number on a page in her notebook and rips it out, handing it to Peeta. “Katniss, please don’t forget you’re to check in with Dr. Aurelias every other day. This is really all a formality, but I know President Paylor won’t hesitate to send you home if you don’t follow her guidelines.”

                I avoid talking to Dr. Aurelias whenever possible. Our telephone conversations, no matter how brief or inane, always leave me feeling drained. For at least a week after, my nightmares are much worse: louder and more prone to waking Peeta with flailing limbs. But I’m hoping these phone calls will just be quick check ins, and I don’t want to take this freedom away from Peeta, so I nod dutifully. I can do this.

                Victor’s Lane in District 4 is nothing like 12's Village. The houses, made of a smooth, white material, are in a line, facing the ocean. They’re far enough away from the water that there’s space for a single lane roadway between, but close enough that I can imagine a four year old Marinus running out the front door and into the waves. Each house has differently colored shutters: all bright, happy colors, not overwhelming like the loud neons of the Capitol, but blues and greens that make me think of the ocean, oranges and yellows that remind me of sunshine, pinks and purples that bring wildflowers to mind. This would be a far better place to recover than 12 is, I think, even if the latter is my home.

                The car pulls up in front of the third house, where I can see Annie’s red head tilted forward in the garden. She’s knelt on the ground, holding Marinus’ hand – she must have been in the middle of gardening because I see shears and a trowel beside her, but all of her attention is wrapped up in the beautiful boy talking to her. _She_ is a wonderful mother, I want to tell Peeta, _I_ can’t be like her.

                But instead I keep my mouth shut and let Peeta take both of our bags out of the trunk of the car – I’ve learned that I have to pick my battles when it comes to proving I don’t need him to do _everything_ for me, and it’s easier to just let this one go. Effie waves and tells us she and Haymitch will be back in a few hours to check in and the vehicle pulls away. Annie stands up at the noise the car makes and waves at us, a gardening glove waving back and forth in her grasp. Marinus looks less excited, hiding behind his mother’s legs. Annie glances down and laughs at him, patting his head. I wonder if she cares for him entirely on her own, and who is there for him when she can’t be.

                Peeta and I travel the short distance up Annie’s sidewalk, lined with large shells and strange, beautiful plants that are foreign to me. Annie wraps her arms around me first, while Peeta sets our bags down on her porch, and Marinus never releases his grip on his mother’s pant leg.

                “It’s so lovely to have you here!” she says excitedly. I can see dark shadows under her eyes and try to summon the same amount of energy she’s mastered.

                “We’re very excited to be here,” I tell her, but my response seems flat next to her enthusiasm.

                Peeta gives Annie a hug and a quick peck on the cheek: their bond is deeper than mine is with her – as Johanna said, they’re very familiar with one another’s screams. Beyond that, Peeta talks to Annie on the phone and in letters much more frequently than I do. I’m sure if I didn’t know that Annie was still enamoured with Finnick, there would be a part of me that was jealous, but as it is, I know that Peeta is just a social butterfly at heart and indulges in bonding with the few people who are best able to understand his trauma.

                Once Peeta releases Annie from his hug, he squats down so that he is eye level with the bronze haired boy attached to her leg. “And you must be Marinus,” Peeta says with a soft grin. The boy seems to melt away from his mother, dropping his hands slowly and twisting them anxiously.

                “Yes,” he says, his voice quiet and nervous, nothing like his father’s arrogance. Time may grant him that quality, but something tells me that instead, he’s going to be blessed with his mother’s unobtrusive grace and her sweet kindness. Those are the things that Finnick loved most about his wife and I’m sure he would want to see those traits in his son, too. “This is my mom,” he says, pointing up at Annie’s grinning face.

                “Don’t I know it,” Peeta tells him, reaching out a hand to shake Marinus’. It takes a moment, and there’s some trepidation, but eventually Marinus responds in kind and places his tiny hand in Peeta’s. “Now, I’ve heard that you like collecting starfish,” Peeta says, tugging Marinus gently away from Annie. “Would you like to show me your collection?” Marinus’ eyes light up and he half hops, half runs to take Peeta around the side of the house where he has “oodles and oodles!” And just like that, Peeta has the small boy wrapped around his finger.

                Annie helps me carry our bags upstairs and shows me the room she has set up for Peeta and I. The same, happy colors from the shutters are repeated inside all over her furniture and décor, though they’re a little more muted within the confines of the house. The room Peeta and I will be staying in is very large, with a massive bed and a couch beside the armoire. Next to the large bay window, there's a door which leads to a beautiful bathroom.

                “Is this the master?” I ask Annie, dropping my duffle bag onto the couch.

                “Yes,” she nods and looks a little lost.

                “You didn’t have to give us your room,” I say. I already feel indebted to Annie for letting her husband die, a transgression I will never be able to right, and now she’s letting Peeta and her husband’s killer stay in her home, in her room. I suddenly feel overcome with the nausea I had been ignoring the whole way here. I let myself fall onto the couch next to my bag and try to breathe through the sickness bubbling up inside of me.

                It’s then, during my calming breaths, that I notice Annie seems to be stuck in some kind of trance. She’s halfway to putting her hands over her ears, but is standing still, watching me with a sadness in her eyes. “It’s not my room anymore,” she says, her voice hollow, “not since…well, you know.”

                I tamp down my nausea once more and force myself off of the couch to wrap my arms tightly around Annie. She lets out a quiet sob and runs her hands through my hair, pressing her face into my shoulder. Of all the innocent, wonderful people to be scarred by the rebellion…if Snow was still alive, I’d kill the man in a heartbeat.

                Annie pulls back from our embrace and her face is composed once more, as though nothing has happened. And as I look at her in the large room that was once hers and Finnick’s, I realize exactly how she’s spent four years raising Marinus on her own. Annie compartmentalizes her grief: her sadness and terror are only indulged and experienced for short moments, and then she is able to return to her happy self. That’s not a tactic Dr. Aurelias has ever encouraged me to try, but it seems like a perfectly acceptable coping mechanism to me.

                “Are you hungry?” Annie asks, fixing the few hairs she mussed out of place on my head. “I could fix you and Peeta an early supper.”

                “No, we ate on the train, thank you.” I’m not sure how to act now – she seems to be pretending we never had that moment of simultaneous break down, so I assume I should be doing the same.

                “Well, what were you hoping to do during your stay?” Annie leads me out of the room and around the house while we talk, showing me her room, Marinus’ room, the study (which seems to be empty other than some plants, candles and a large blanket on the floor), and the downstairs.

                “I’m not really sure,” I tell her, following closely behind. “I think Peeta was just elated that we could finally leave District 12. I mean, he could have gone any time he wanted, but-“

                “He never would have gone without you, Katniss,” Annie says, showing me into the kitchen, where all of the light streams in from a wall of windows. “Well, my days are typically spent with Marinus, cooking, gardening, scouring the beach for more starfish,” she grins at me. “But you are welcome to spend as much time with and around us as you want. I didn’t have any expectations: I just want you to enjoy yourselves.”

                I laugh a little, peeking out the wall of windows at Peeta, who is listening raptly as Marinus shows him his extensive collection. “I think Peeta has found a new best friend.”

                Annie chuckles. “Why don’t I make us some iced tea?”

                I’ve never had tea that’s intentionally cold before, but I nod. Annie goes to work at the counter and I stay by the window, leaning against the glass and split my viewing up between Annie and Peeta.

                “Have you ever thought about having children?” Annie asks, filling the pitcher with a dark liquid.

                “I think about it often, but not in the way that Peeta does. I can’t be a parent,” I say bluntly, because I’m not looking for a repeat of what happened upstairs.

                “Hmmm,” Annie is thoughtful as she grabs a few lemons from a bowl and rolls them in her palms. “Peeta _would_ love to have children, wouldn’t he? Look at him and Marinus.” She smiles and slices the fruit in half, squeezing its juice into the pitcher. “And you’d be a wonderful mother Katniss, I knew that when I watched you with…when I first saw you.” I don’t know if she means Rue or Prim, but either name would have been impossible to hear, so I’m grateful that she glossed over it. “But, no one can decide for you other than yourself, and Peeta, of course.”

                I nod and pull away from the window, stepping closer to watch Annie fill the jug with water from the faucet. She goes to her ice box and pulls out a tray of ice cubes, dropping all of them into her concoction. “There! All done. Why don’t we take this out to the boys?”

* * *

 

                It only takes a few days for Peeta, Annie, Marinus, and I to fall into some sort of routine. Peeta and I wake early, as usual, and he goes down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. I realized our first day here that Annie spends her mornings, while Marinus sleeps, in the study. She sits on the mat in silence and stretches her body in strange poses, breathing noisily and making whooshing sounds. She told me that she was doing “yoga” and encouraged me to try it with her. Thus, every morning since finds me in the strangely scented room, contorting myself with Annie.

                Once Marinus wakes, we all eat breakfast together and then go to the beach, or into town, or visit Effie and Haymitch at their hotel, which has a massive playground that Marinus just can’t stay away from. Effie has been diligent in coming to visit three times a day, having a lemonade or glass of iced tea (which I now know I love), and chatting for about half an hour. It must be frustrating to have to divide her day up, but she never lets on that she’s irritated. Haymitch, however, has no problem complaining about the task of coming to us.

                “You don’t have to come,” Effie tells him, smacking his arm lightly, “You could have just stayed behind. No one’s forcing you.”

                He shakes his head and slumps further forward in his chair.

                I’ve been very dutifully calling Dr. Aurelias every second day, and the phone calls are, luckily, extremely short. He asks how I’m doing (he was very interested to discuss my reaction to Annie after the first day), and if anything has triggered any irrational behavior. I tell him I’m fine and then hang up the phone.

                It isn’t until our seventh day in Annie’s home that something happens to upset the small utopia we’ve made for ourselves.

                Annie and I are in the study, stretching together. I find the movements every morning are making me feel more and more nimble and am considering continuing this routine when Peeta and I return to 12, whenever that may be. There’s a noise downstairs, it sounds like a knock on the front door, but it’s very quiet so I can’t be sure Peeta hasn’t just dropped something in the kitchen. Annie is breathing sedately in what she’s told me is the siddhasana pose, and seems not to have noticed the sound yet. I rise from my mat as silently as possible so as not to disturb her and slip from the room. I trot down the stairs and find Peeta at the front door talking with someone. He’s being quiet, like he’s hopeful that Annie and I won’t hear or know what’s happening. I tip toe over and catch the tail end of a sentence.

                “- can’t just show up like this. I told you, you could really upset her.”

                The voice I hear responding is one that is more familiar to me than any other, even if I haven’t heard it in years. “I told you, I didn’t know you were here. I’m just here to check in on my patient, but you can’t stop me from seeing my daughter.”

                My stomach flip flops inside of me, all of the yoga imposed calmness slipping through my fingers at my mother’s voice. We spoke once on the telephone years ago, but after that I was too angry and she was too hurt to try again. We have found that we are better off apart than together and we’ve both been content to leave it that way, at least until today.

                The woman on the doorstep, my long estranged mother, makes it feel like all of my pigeons have come home to roost. If only Gale was here, my past would be encircling me like a pack of wolves. What a time Dr. Aurelias will have when I call him next. I reach out to touch Peeta’s shoulder and he jumps at the contact – he’s used to my silence, but my mother’s unexpected presence seems to have put him on edge.

                “It’s alright, you can let her in,” I tell him, steeling myself for his reaction. But Peeta simply looks at me sadly and opens the front door all of the way, letting my mother in.

                She surprises me. I expected someone similar to the person who abandoned me five years ago, tired and wan, looking more broken than any of the Victors I knew. My mother, however, looks like a new person. Her blonde hair is beautifully pinned up, similar to the braid she styled my hair in for Prim’s first reaping. She’s wearing a neatly cut pant suit and has a case gripped in her hand. There’s a badge pinned to her collar, and she’s even wearing a muted shade of lipstick. It seems that five years away from me has done my mother a world of good.

                In contrast to her well maintained appearance, I’m standing in Annie’s living room in a borrowed pair of shorts and one of Peeta’s t-shirts, the most comfortable apparel I had for yoga. My braid is still mussed from last night and I haven’t even washed my face yet. I must look like a mess, even though it’s only because I’ve just woken up. “It’s very early to be making house calls,” I say, because I have to defend my broken appearance – I won’t have her thinking that I need her. Peeta puts a hand on my shoulder and massages the tension there, his presence warm and sturdy by my side.

                “Yes, well, my train from 2 arrived early and I know Annie’s usually up at this hour, so I wasn’t too worried about interrupting.” My mother looks at Peeta and me strangely, as though she’s still not sure if we’re really there. Without invitation, she lets herself into the house and sets her case down, unbuttoning her suit jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door. Clearly, my mother is more comfortable in Annie Odair’s home than I am. “Have you been meditating with her, Katniss?” my mother asks, and I can hear Dr. Aurelias asking the same question over the phone.

                “Yes,” I reply, something surly erupting from within as I speak. “We were in the middle when you interrupted us.”

                “It looks like I haven’t interrupted Annie,” she says, picking up her case once more. “I’ll just go check in on her.”

                Part of me longs to hurl myself at my mother and – what? Hug her? Attack her, like I attacked Haymitch so many years ago? But Peeta’s warm hand keeps me grounded as we watch her ascend the stairs.

                “Well, that was weird,” he says, squeezing lightly before dropping his hand. “Why don’t you join me in the kitchen? I was going to make a berry compote to go with some biscuits.”

                “What?” I ask, trailing behind him regardless.

                “You’ll like it. You just have to mash up some strawberries.”

                I certainly feel like crushing something right now.


	5. Year Five, Part B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta and Katniss observe a tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, good Lord. This chapter has sooooo much fluff. It's a little agonizing to be honest. My fingers are sticking to the keys from it. I tried so hard to keep everyone in character through the whole thing, but please let me know if someone seems off or wrong. This made me so happy to write, but I also want to be sure it matches the general consensus of our perception of certain characters, so please tell me if you think something needs to be altered. Thanks for reading everyone! :)

_Year Five – Part B_

                Peeta stands, leaning against the stove, and watches concernedly as I smash the strawberries in front of me. He’s told me I can leave some larger chunks, that’s how you make a compote, but I’m sure that this bowl will be soup before I’m done. Upstairs, my mother is either speaking so quietly to Annie that I cannot hear, or she is being silent.

                “What’s she here for anyways?” I ask Peeta, smashing a particularly stubborn berry with relish. “It’s not like she’s a head doctor, and physically, Annie’s perfectly fine. Right?”

                Peeta shakes his head. “Who knows? Annie hasn’t said anything to me, but it could be something she hasn’t mentioned.”

                The renegade berry escapes from under my fork and I half scream, half grunt with anger. “This is ridiculous!” I throw my hands up, splattering some strawberry puree on the wall behind me. Peeta sighs and wipes the red juice off of the wall with his thumb. He takes the fork from me and grabs the bowl, carrying it over to the stove where he has some sugar water simmering. He pours in the strawberries and beckons me over with a wave of his hand. I come to stand by his side and he passes me the wooden spoon, wrapping his arm around my waist.

                “Just stir slowly, constant motions so that nothing sticks to the bottom of the pot.” He rubs his hand up and down my side. “I don’t know why your mom is here, but it’s not like she knew you were. She was just as shocked to see me as I was to see her. She didn’t come here with an agenda to upset you, Katniss. She’s just doing her job.”

                “Well,” I huff, handing Peeta the spoon back and twisting out of his grasp, “I wish she’d do it somewhere else.”

                “Katniss, come on.” He looks torn between following me and letting his compote burn or staying at the stove. “I’m not saying you’re in the wrong or anything, you have every right to be angry!” He has to raise his voice to be heard as I stalk into the living room. But I don’t want to listen to Peeta’s reason – I want him to let me feel angry without any logic to temper the rage. He stops trying to talk to me, clearly it’s more important that we have some jam to put on our biscuits. I don’t want to sit down, there’s too much happening inside, so I pace the living room for a few moments, but I’m still feeling restless.

                There’s a pair of running shoes by the door, Annie’s, and they’re close enough to my size. I shove my feet into them and dash out the door, slamming it shut behind me. As I jog away from Annie’s house and down the beach, I can hear Peeta yelling my name. But he’s not fast enough to keep up with me, not with his prosthetic, and he stays in the doorway, yelling until the sound of the ocean drowns him out.

                The sand shifts unsteadily under my feet and I have to work twice as hard to move at my usual pace. My life has been difficult these last five years, not horrible – Peeta’s seen to that – but most nights I’m plagued by visions of my loved ones dying or yelling at me, fire that burns endlessly, Peeta…murdering me. I worry that I will never recover from the war we faced, that there will always be days when Peeta comes home from the bakery to find me sobbing under a shower gone cold, that there will always be times when an arrow in a buck in cause for panic attack. I know that I will never be the same girl I was when I volunteered for Prim, too much has changed. And I could handle that.

                I could handle it until my mother walked into Annie’s house, looking like she had _flourished_ after the war, as though my absence and Prim’s death had _helped_ her. I drop to my knees on the beach and _scream._ I hope that I’m far enough away from Annie’s house that I don’t wake or scare Marinus, but I don’t care enough to stop. I grab clumps of sand and seaweed in my hands, crushing the moist matter in my fists and I bellow. I’m so angry and so confused that I don’t know what to do. I flop sideways onto the wet shore and watch the water come towards me. It’s far enough that I’m not soaked, but my clothes are damp.

                My face is wet, too, and I realize I’ve been crying. I try to suck in a calming breath, but all I taste is ocean water heavy with sorrow. I bring my hands to my chest and hiccup, my throat raw from screaming. I hear footsteps jogging towards me and glance up to see Peeta, his face red from trying to keep pace from me, and likely from worry. “Hey,” he whispers, trying not to startle me. When I am like this, lost and desperate, Peeta treats me like a wounded animal. He approaches cautiously, his hands held out in placation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

                I scowl at him from my spot on the ground, see where the water has splashed up onto his trousers. He’s in his bare feet – one flesh and one metal. He didn’t even take the time to put on shoes before he followed me out the door. Peeta squats down slowly and reaches forward to where my hands are still pressed to my chest, clenched around seaweed. He opens one fist and brushes out the sand and plant life before doing the same for the other. “Do you want to go stay at the hotel with Effie and Haymitch?” I frown and shake my head.

                “Do you want to walk back to Annie’s with me?” I look dubiously at Peeta, but let him help me up. “You’re soaked through,” he says, plucking the stuck fabric of his shirt off of my back. It’s warm enough that I’m not cold, but my skin starts to feel clammy. “Let’s go back so you can change at least.”

                “Your biscuits will be burnt,” I say, letting him take me by the hand.

                “That’s okay,” he says, his fist warm around mine. “I’ll make some more. No harm, no foul.”

                I sniffle a little because I feel like a fool. What sort of mentally sane person has a temper tantrum on the beach? I take a large step and inch closer to Peeta as we walk until we’re side by side. “Sorry,” I say, twining our arms together.

                Peeta looks at me, a little confused. “What for? Having a totally normal reaction to seeing someone you thought you’d never see again?”

                I shake my head and let out a weak chuckle. “It’s just…”I choke back a sob. “She looks better, without Prim and I.”

                Peeta stops us walking, stands firm so that his feet sink into the sand and grips both of my shoulders, makes me look him in the eye. “Katniss, she does _not_ look better. Maybe she’s wearing nice clothes and she’s got an official job, but I don’t think you took the time to look her in the eye. She looks like…like I did, when I was hijacked. Like she’s – I don’t know, empty inside.”

                I don’t want my mother to feel that way, but Peeta’s words reassure me somewhat. If my mother suffered depression when she lost my father, I would have expected some sort of emotional reaction at the loss of both of her daughters, even if one is her doing.

                “Come back, take a shower, put on some clean clothes. Breakfast will be ready and if she’s still at the house, you can talk to her, and you’ll see. She’s just like you and me and everyone else. She’s hurting, too.”

                I nod and follow Peeta back the house where Annie is in the kitchen. She pulled the biscuits out of the oven before they could burn, but the compote couldn’t be saved. I look sadly at the pot of blackened fruit jam and she grins. “It’s fine,” she says. “I’ve got some delicious blueberry jam that will work just as well.” She graciously doesn’t say anything about my sodden clothes or her filthy running shoes on my feet. Peeta thanks her for saving breakfast and pushes me upstairs, guiding me into our room.

                I can hear Marinus’ voice down the hallway, his bedroom door open a crack. He's talking very seriously at someone, but I don’t hear them reply when Peeta shuts the bedroom door. “Do you think my mother’s talking to him?” I ask, tugging off my shirt and handing it to Peeta.

                He shrugs his shoulders. “Her, or an imaginary friend.”

                I go into the bathroom and set the shower to warm, toss my shorts out to Peeta so that he can put the laundry in the wash. “I’ll be down in a bit,” I tell him, climbing underneath of the warm spray.

                When I re-emerge downstairs, Peeta and Anna are sitting at the kitchen table with my mother. I can see Marinus out the window-wall, running around in the backyard with somebody’s dog. I stiffen in the doorway, but decide that the best course of action would be to pretend like this morning never happened.

                “Hello mother,” I say, sitting at the only open seat left, between Peeta and Annie, but directly across from my mother. Peeta pushes a plate of biscuits in front of me and I instantly pick one up and bite into it, needing something to occupy myself.

                “Katniss,” she says, her breath comes out in a whisper. “I really am very sorry for the surprise, I’m sure it didn’t help with your mental stability.”

                I snort and I’m sure Peeta’s glad my mouth is too full to bite back with a scathing response.

                “As I was telling Peeta, I was just here to check on Marinus. We were worried that he might have a chronic condition, but everything appears to be fine. I won’t be staying,” she says, rising from her seat. I work to swallow my biscuit as she steps away from the table. “It’s good to see that you’re well,” she says. She reaches out, as if to touch my shoulder or hair, but seems to reconsider, smoothing a wrinkle in the table cloth instead. “I am relieved to see you are happy.”

                She leaves the kitchen and Annie looks imploringly at me, her eyes and mouth turned down with heartbreak.

                “Wait!” I say, spinning around in my chair. “Why don’t you ever call?” I ask, stopping my mother halfway to the door.

                “You asked me not to,” she says, facing away from me. Her shoulders raise and lower momentarily, almost a shrug in slow motion. “I wanted to respect your wishes.”

                “You _could_ call,” I mumble. “If you wanted.”

                Her back straightens, but still, she doesn’t face me. “Perhaps I will,” she says, walking to gather her things. “Later. I really must be going, I’m late for another appointment.”

                It feels like a heavy weight lifts from my chest as she walks out and Peeta takes my hand, grinning. “That was really brave,” he says, and he looks like he means it. “I’m proud of you.”

                Annie’s smile is wide as she nods in agreement. We sit in silence for a while, eating and listening to Marinus’ laughter as he chases the dog around. He darts in and out of our lines of vision, rolling and tumbling with the animal. I’ve never wanted a dog, I find myself too plagued by visions of the dead tributes' eyes staring at me from behind a snarling visage, but this dog seems friendly. Almost as tall as Marinus and light red in color, snapping and barking playfully, wagging his tail. There is happiness in these small moments and that is all that I can ask for.

                “What would you like to do today?” Annie asks, while we load the dishwasher. It’s a machine I’d never seen before coming to District 4, but I want to ask Peeta how he feels about investing in one. All you do is fill it with your dirty dishes, close it, and push a button. In less than an hour, it beeps and when you open it, all of your dishes are clean. If I hadn’t seen what they can do in the Capitol, I might have thought it was magic.

                “Did _you_ have anything in mind?” I ask her.

                “Well, there’s a small fair in town.”

                “What’s a fair?” I’ve never heard the word used as a noun and find myself feeling curious.

                “You’ll love it,” Annie says, brightening at the prospect of showing me something new. I find myself trusting Annie more and more with each passing day, so I nod and return her grin, infected by her joy.

                “Alright, we’ll go.”

                “Why don’t we ask Haymitch and Effie, too? All six of us can go together.”

                I scoff at the idea of a day outing with Haymitch but nod, Effie will probably enjoy the fair, whatever it is.

                “I’ll give Marinus a bath and then we can go,” Annie says. She opens one of the panels on the window-wall, almost like a sliding door. “Come on, Marinus! Bath time! Say goodbye to Cody.”

                “Do I have to?” I hear his petulant voice from around the corner, a whine already coming out.

                “Don’t you want to go to the fair?” Annie says, her happy voice never faltering.

                I hear Marinus yelling goodbye to the dog before I see him jogging inside. He’s still in his pyjamas but they’re covered in dirty paw prints. He grins up at me, dragging his bare feet across the mat to keep from leaving filthy footprints on the floor. “Are you coming, too, Auntie Katniss?”

                I nod as Annie answers. “Yes, and Uncle Peeta, too. Now, we have to take a bath quick before they leave without us!” She scoops him up in her arms and he giggles but suddenly looks very seriously at me.

                “You won’t leave without me, will you?” He’s over his mother’s shoulder, so he can see me even though Annie is facing away as she walks up the stairs. I raise a finger to my lips and shake my head.

                “We might!” I say, then wink at him. He giggles loudly and lets his mother cart him up the stairs. The window-wall-turned-doorway is still open, and once I’m alone, I turn around to close it. Cody sits just outside the entryway, his wagging tail thumping against the ground. I reach out and scratch him between his ears and he licks my palm before scampering off to wherever his owner may be. Some old fears can be made good once more, if we’re patient enough.

                Effie has clearly been to a fair before, as she is elated when we invite her to join us. Haymitch seems indifferent, but joins us at Marinus’ behest – it’s difficult for anyone to deny the boy. The fair has been something of a springtime staple for District 4 for as long as anyone can seem to remember. From what Annie tells me as we ride in the hired vehicle that will take us there, it sounds a lot like the Harvest Festival in 12, but on a much grander scale, which makes sense, seeing as District 4 is so much larger.

                “There’s food, and games, and music,” Marinus says, unable to contain his excitement. “They even have a big wheel that spins and takes you up into the sky!”

                “That’s new,” Annie says, taking in my shocked expression. “It was built last year, and Marinus has wanted to go on it ever since. They call it a Ferris wheel.” I am surprised that the population of 4 decided to spend money on something so frivolous while Panem is still rebuilding itself. But District 12 is the only one that was burned to the ground and had to rebuild from rubble. The other districts have been prospering without being under the yoke of the Capitol’s rule, and it seems at least one of them has decided to reward its population for their years of toil.

                Maybe one day, District 12 will be able to do the same thing.

                The fairground (that’s where Annie says we’re going), is far away from the town center and satellite villages. Apparently, a lot of space is required for all of the little huts and the Ferris wheel. It takes almost an hour and a half to get there and Peeta is snoozing on my shoulder by the time we arrive. Marinus has managed to stay awake the entire time, watching anxiously out the window for the first sign of the fair and then listing all of the fun things he wants to do with Peeta and me. It’s all Annie can do to restrain him while we pay the driver and pile out.

                There’s a small fee to get in, and I suppose that’s how they pay all of the people who run the fair. Marinus takes Peeta’s hand and drags him over to show him a stand with balloons and a fluffy sort of cloud on a stick.

                “What is that?” I ask Annie.

                “Candy floss. Is basically pure sugar, so of course he can’t get enough of it.”

                Like when I first arrived in the Capitol, everything here is new and amazing to me. However, unlike that trip, I am entranced and excited by the blinking lights, bright colours, and the massive spinning wheel that towers over everything, reaching high into the sky. I want to see all of this, the excitement that these people have managed to create out of the oppression they used to live under. Effie and Haymitch wander off in their own directions, promising to meet up with us later (well, Effie promises. Haymitch just looks at me and walks toward a bench where he can sit down.) I can see Peeta and Marinus up ahead at one of the huts. Peeta is throwing small, fist sized balls at wooden posts, trying to knock them over for some kind of prize. Marinus is cheering for him, but with every toss looks more and more bereft.

                When we arrive, Peeta holds out one of the balls to me. “I only have two more chances and I haven’t hit a single one,” he says, without a trace of shame in his voice. “I know you can hit at least one of these.” I take the ball and survey my target. The posts are set up in a sort of rising pyramid shape, the point of it is closest to me and it gets largest at the back of the hut. If I can manage to hit the front peg properly, they will fall like dominos and all of the pegs will go with it. I shift my weight, drop my hips, test the ball by chucking it up the air a few times, and then take aim. The first peg flings back, knocking over the two behind it. As I had hoped, all of the other pegs fall over after, until the pyramid is flat.

                Peeta whistles and Marinus hugs my waist, cheering loudly. “Yay! Thank you Auntie Katniss! Thank you!” There’s a man standing in the booth with a grin on his face who lets Marinus pick out a prize. The boy chooses, unsurprisingly, a large cone of blue candy floss. He rips off a piece to shove in his mouth when Annie stops him with her hand.

                “Don’t you think you should ask Auntie Katniss and Uncle Peeta if they want some?”

                Marinus looks absolutely crestfallen at potentially having to share his prize, but we both shake our heads, laughing. “All yours, little man,” Peeta says, wrapping his arm loosely around my waist. “That was amazing! You’re incredible.”

                “I just knocked over some wooden pegs,” I scoff, playing with his watch.

                “Which I tried, and failed, to knock over five times first,” he says.

                “Five times?!” I can’t help but laugh and Annie joins in, giggling.

                “Hey now, we all have our talents,” she says, trying to be kind. But Peeta waves her off.

                “What else is there to see around here?”

                “You two should go check out the Ferris wheel,” Annie says, grabbing the back of Marinus’ shirt to keep him from getting run over by a large group of young kids. “Marinus’ is too short to go on it, but it’s very romantic.” She grins at Peeta and I notice his cheeks darken a little. “We’re going to go look at the other huts, we’ll meet you back here in a bit. Then we can find Effie and Haymitch and get some real food.”

                “Where are they going?” Marinus asks as Annie guides him away from us. I can’t hear her answer, but then he says “No fair! I want to go to!” She pulls him away, likely luring him with the prospect of more candy floss.

                “What’s wrong with being romantic?” I ask Peeta, stroking the pinkness of his cheeks. He’s not usually shy or embarrassed about his affection for me, so his reaction surprises me.

                “Nothing,” he shakes his head and grins, leading me to the line at the base of the Ferris wheel. “For instance, it was very romantic when you saved me from becoming a failure in Marinus’ eyes and won that candy floss for him.” I laugh and Peeta presses a kiss to my cheek.

                The line moves quickly for its size and soon we’re being ushered into a small sort of seat. It’s like a sofa with a bar that goes across our laps and rocks as we get in. I can’t help but feel nervous as the wheel begins to rotate, our little seat swinging back and forth as it does. “Oh my gosh!” I say, letting my hand fall on top of Peeta's where it sits on the bar. “This is crazy! We’re moving!”

                “It’s a really beautiful view,” Peeta says, and he’s right. The only other time I’ve been up this high and able to see was when we stayed in the tribute center, and that looked down on the Capitol. From where we are, about halfway up the Ferris wheel when it stops for a moment, we can see out for a few miles into the small towns of District 4. There are boats and little pools of water everywhere, the whole area seems to shimmer in the late afternoon sun.

                When the wheel begins to move again, I let out an involuntary sort of yelp and the noise is so unfamiliar, I clap my hand over my mouth. Katniss Everdeen does not yelp. But Peeta just laughs gently and pries my fingers away from my mouth. Once we’re at the top of the wheel, it stops once more and we’re able to see even further out. I can see where the water laps at the edges of the district, deep blue and choppy. The sun looks beautiful hovering over the scenery, but I don’t have much time to take in the view because Peeta starts talking.

                “I never thought my life would be like this,” he says. I’m not sure what he’s referencing but I nod, because a lot of things have happened that I never imagined. “I mean, I feel so lucky. I have you now, Katniss, and you chose me. You chose this life for yourself. After President Snow and the…and the proposal, I thought that was it for us. But I was so wrong. These past five years with you have been some of the most amazing…and most difficult of my life. But I wouldn’t trade them for anything because you’re the only person I’ve wanted to be with ever since you sang the Valley song in school. I just haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you.”

                “Peeta,” I say, because his words are too kind and I don’t know how to respond, how to let him know I feel the same way, even if it took me a little longer to catch on.

                “Just…just let me finish, okay? Because I know I won’t get this out otherwise.” I nod and watch him as he struggles to find his place in what must be a well-rehearsed speech. “I know that you don’t want kids, and I know you think that’s a huge deal to me, Katniss, but everything else is secondary to you. You’re the most important thing in my life, the reason I fought to come back, my sole purpose for being here. I was willing to die for you during the Quarter Quell, but I’m so glad I didn’t.”

                I reach out and place a hand on his cheek. I’m touched by his words, but I’m not sure where this is coming from or why he’s saying them.

                “Katniss, you’re perfect to me. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, ever could want. I never want to sleep next to anyone else, or…get yelled at by anyone else for forgetting to wash my paint out of the kitchen sink, or plant flowers with anyone else. You’re it for me – you always have been and always will be.”

                I now feel like I know where this speech is going. There’s an anxious knot in my stomach and I try not to let my anticipation show on my face in case I’m wrong.

                “Katniss, will you marry me? I mean, really marry me?”

                It takes me no time to answer. I press a finger to his temple, I left my hand on his face through his entire speech. “Yes, Peeta,” I say, and even though I’ve never been particularly given to romantic gestures, I’m a little choked up. “Yes, let’s get married.” I say with a smile. Peeta kisses me for a long moment, his arms wrapping around my shoulders to encase me. But after a few seconds, he pulls back like he’s forgotten something. He leans over the side of our seat and looks down at the ground.

                “She said yes!” he yells, and down beneath us, Annie and Effie are clapping and Haymitch looks like something he’d been waiting for years for had finally happened. The crowd cheers and claps as the wheel begins to rotate again.

                “How’d you get them to stop the wheel for so long?” I ask, as the ground comes up to greet us.

                “I asked Annie to slip the attendant a few dollars for me.”

                “You’re sneaky,” I say, but I kiss him again to show him that I don’t really mind.

* * *

 

                We decide to have the wedding here, in District 4, because most of the people that we care about are already with us. Effie insists that we let her plan a party, but I try to convince her not to. Eventually I give in and give her a list of people who I wouldn’t mind seeing, attendees that she’s allowed to invite. I remind her that most of them are unlikely to come, since we’re giving them such short notice. (“Five days! That really is not enough time to plan a proper party, Katniss. But I’ll do my best with what I’ve got.”) Eventually though, Peeta and I sit down and we manage to write out a list of eight people we wouldn’t mind inviting.

  * Delly and her girlfriend
  * Beetee
  * Greasy Sae and her granddaughter
  * Thom, who helped rebuild Peeta’s bakery and has been a good friend to us ever since
  * Johanna
  * Cressida



                I’m aware that it’s an abysmally short list, but most of the people who we would want at our wedding -Prim, Rue, Madge, Finnick, Cinna, Portia, Peeta’s family, and so many more – are dead and gone. I’d rather it remain an intimate affair, anyways. I don’t want anything to remind me of the false marriage that was almost forced on us six years ago.

                Effie wants to take me to the town center to pick out a new dress for the wedding, something “worthy of Cinna’s best model”, but I like the yellow dress that I’ve brought and see no need for buying something I won’t like. I show her the dress and I can tell she has to work to hide her disappointment.

                Peeta will make the cake, but I’m not allowed to see it until the day of the wedding, so the kitchen is off limits to me when he’s working in there. Annie is beside herself with excitement, dragging me to town every day to pick out different decorations and food and favors and things I never even knew you needed for a wedding.

                Time moves quickly and soon it’s the day before the wedding. We’ve heard back from everyone, excited offers of congratulations from all of them. Unfortunately, Sae, her granddaughter, and Thom won’t be able to make it, but everyone else is coming. We book rooms at the hotel where Effie and Haymitch are staying in case anyone wants to stay.

                As we’re lying in bed, trying to fall asleep the night before, Peeta reaches over and takes me hand. “Do you want your mother to come?” he asks. I feel his leg shift next to me and he presses our thighs together. “I’m sure if we called her, she would come on the next train.”

                “No,” I say, unable to keep the curtness from my voice. “We’re not ready. It’s too soon.”

                “Well,” he huffs, sounding unsurprised but disappointed, “if you change your mind, just let me know.”

                “I’ll do that.”

                We’re lay in silence for a moment, just the ocean rushing outside of our open window. “Are you nervous?” Peeta asks.

                “No. Why should I be? What’s going to change?”

                Peeta huffs. I feel him move the blankets when he shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. Your last name?”

                I can’t help but smile. “That’s okay. I’ve been yours for a quite a while now, haven’t I?”

                He doesn’t speak again until I’m sure he’s fallen asleep. Peeta’s breaths come even and slow and I roll myself over to lay my head on his chest. He wraps his arm around me and dips his head to kiss the top of mine. “She’ll be there, you know. Prim.”

                I try not to cry, bite my lip and sniffle.

                “I know it’s going to be hard to do this without her, but she’ll be watching it all. They all will.”

                I’m unable to hold back the tears and I’m sure Peeta can feel when my shoulders shake. He runs his hand up and down my back, soothing me. “It’s okay, to be a little sad, too. I am – I wish my dad and brothers were here.”

                I feel so selfish for not thinking of him, for worrying only about my own heartache. “I’m so sorry,” I say, tipping my head back to look at him in the darkness. He shakes his head.

                “Nothing to be sorry about. I was never as close to them as you were to Prim. I just…I just didn’t want you to hide yourself away in a closet tomorrow. I wanted you to know they’re all here with us and they’re happy for us, too.”

                I sniffle and then snuggle back into his chest, relishing in the feeling of his arm tightening once more around me. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try to stay out of hiding.”

* * *

 

                The morning of the wedding dawns beautiful and serene, not too hot and not too cold. We’ll be getting married in Annie’s backyard, with her strange, beautiful flowers and Cody, the stray dog. Annie and I string up orange and yellow ribbons along her fence and Effie ties bright balloons to stakes at the front of the house. Peeta is putting some finishing touches on the cake and Haymitch has been put in charge of making sure the food gets here. I wonder if we’ll ever see him or the food.

                Marinus runs around, full of enough energy and joy for all of us, chatting to Peeta conspiratorially in the kitchen, keeping Cody company in the backyard, bopping the balloons that Effie so carefully tied up. It’s around 10 in the morning when there’s a loud knock on Annie’s door that has us running to open it and see whoever’s on the other side.

                Delly and her girlfriend, who she introduces to us as Tavya, are the first to arrive. Delly is her usual friendly, bright self, but Tavya seems particularly surly. It isn’t until I remember Tavya left District 4 after losing her home that I wonder if it was a great idea to invite her back. Delly doesn’t seemed overly concerned about her girlfriend’s mood, though, so I try not to give it too much thought.

                There are hugs all around as Peeta and I introduce Delly to Annie and Marinus who darts in and out of our legs, calling for Cody. Annie tells him if he wants to play with Cody, he has to go outside. He pouts but hastens out the front door and rolls around with the dog.

                “Who else is coming?” Delly asks, while I show her and Tavya to a couch where they can sit down.

                “A few people,” Peeta says. “Beetee, Cressida, and Johanna.” Of the three, Delly has only met Johanna and I can tell she’s trying not to make a face when she says it’s nice of her to come. We chat for a while, catching up on Delly’s work and trying to get to know the mostly silent Tavya. Delly was right – she is a lot like me.

                After a while, Marinus comes back in, filthy and escorting “Auntie Johanna” into the house. She frowns at him. “I told you just to call me Johanna, kid,” but reaches out to pat his hair anyways. I surge up to hug her, feeling the need to embrace someone familiar right now, and she returns the gesture half-heartedly, patting my back. Annie takes Marinus upstairs to give him a bath (“How did you get so filthy so soon?”) and Johanna asks me if I’m planning on getting married in my pajamas.

                I had forgotten that I was still wearing them and find myself a little flustered, having sat with Delly and her girlfriend for some time without giving my clothing any thought. Johanna pushes me up the stairs and reminds me that she’s not my fucking prep team.

                It doesn’t take long for me to get ready – Annie joins us after dressing Marinus and telling him he must stay in the house with Peeta or Effie and helps to put my hair up with some pins. They have small pearls on the ends of them that stand out against my dark hair. She twists and spins my locks, pinning here and there – in the end, I’m left with a braid that begins at the front of my head on the right side and twists around to the back before fanning out into a large flower. It could be a primrose, but I think Annie didn’t have a particular one in mind. Once my hair is done, Johanna tries to convince me to put on some makeup, but I haven’t worn any since I retreated to 12, and I’m not interested in it now.

                They help me into my dress, to avoid ruining Annie’s handiwork, and button up the back. The final effect is soft and gentle, I look much younger than my 22 years, but beautiful, too. I think Cinna would be proud. I don’t have a bouquet or anything, so once I slip on a pair of Annie’s white flats, I’m ready to go. Annie hurries down to let everyone know we’re ready and then comes darting back in.

                “Whenever you’re ready!” she says.

                There’s a sudden tightness in my chest and I feel like the room is spinning. _Not now,_ I beg myself, _please, not now_. I just need to get through the day, and then I can be as panicked as I want. But I will not abandon Peeta today – I won’t leave him. Johanna must see my face crumpling, or my eyes darting, or some tell because she snaps her fingers in front of my face, getting my attention. “Hey, you in there?”

                I can feel dampness on my cheeks and wipe it away hastily. Now is not a time to be sad. There will be days, and weeks, and months to be sad later, but today is a happy day. I need to push the sadness away and remember that Prim – everyone I’m missing - would want me to be happy. “Hey!” Johanna says, and I blink at her. “Do you want to get married or not?” Sometimes I think she actually likes me.

                I nod my head and she guides me out of the door and down the stairs. “We’re coming down!” she hollers, almost right in my ear. Maybe she doesn’t like me. “Get Peeta outside if he isn’t already!” We have to go out the front door and around the side of the house because the surprise wedding cake is still in the kitchen. Marinus stands at the side gate with Annie and holds it open like a little gentleman, Cody sits beside him and wags his tail. We didn’t have enough chairs, so other than Beetee in his wheelchair, everyone stands and watches me as I walk up to where Peeta’s standing with Cressida, who’s going to officiate for us – she’s the only one I trusted enough not to start crying in the middle. Effie is already leaning against Haymitch and dabbing at her made up eyes with a handkerchief. Peeta’s wearing a light grey suit – he must have gone into town and purchased one – and Johanna shoves me towards him when I begin to stumble.

                He catches my hands – Peeta, always steady, always stable, always there – and guides me so that I am in front of Cressida and across from him. There’s no standard piece of writing, so I think she’s decided on her own what she’ll say, but I’m not too worried. Peeta’s already said his vows to me: when he brings me food and tries to make me eat on the days that I can’t get out of bed, when he drew Prim’s face perfectly without any guidance, when the first thing he does after an episode is ask me if he’s hurt me (at least five times), when we lay on the couch in front of the fire and trade foot massages after a long day. I realize, standing there in front of our friends…our family, that Peeta and I have been married for years. This is simply a formality.

                I barely hear what Cressida’s saying, something about love going above and beyond the call of duty, surpassing even the cruelty of the worst scientists in the Capitol. She talks about Peeta and I surviving, together, against all odds, and then asks if there’s anything Peeta or I want to say. Peeta, who’s usually so verbose shakes his head. “I never dreamed this day would be here,” he says, squeezing my hands. “I love you so much.”

                I nod my head. “Me, too,” I say, and feel like a fool for it. Cressida declares us united and Peeta kisses me, softly, chastely, pulling my body towards him and pressing our bodies together. Everyone claps and cheers and the world seems to spin around me.

                There’s a blur of music and dancing. Even with the miniscule guest list, I feel like I’m drawn in multiple directions at once. Most of the guests haven’t seen me in years and want to catch up with me (they’ve talked to Peeta on the phone, of course, so they don’t need to bug him as much) throughout the afternoon. Once I’m sure that I’ll scream at the next person who corners me, Annie claps her hands excitedly. “Time for cake!”

                It’s small for a wedding cake, just three round tiers, and the perfect size for the party. Peeta’s frosted it in a medley of greens: darkest at the bottom, fading through light green to white at the top. He’s frosted leaves onto the surface of the cake, swirling around as though they’ve been caught up in the wind. It’s beautiful and he stands there, holding it, with a stupid grin on his face.

                “Come on, come on, put it down so we can take a picture!” Annie says, pulling out a camera.

                Peeta and I pose side by side, arms twined around one another and smile into the lens. There’s a flash and then we’re cutting into the cake. Lemon sponge with raspberry filling. When we turn to feed each other a piece (not a custom from 12, but something Effie’s insisting we do) I crush the moist cake against Peeta’s half open mouth, smearing frosting and yellow cake across his face. He laughs and pushes most of it into his mouth, but there’s still some green on his face when he feeds me my piece. He acts like he’s going to be sweet and pop it in my mouth, but at the very last second, he crushes it against my nose and upper lip. Effie is absolutely appalled by our behavior, but everyone else is laughing.

                The night seems to pass quickly, there’s more dancing and laughing and Peeta is in and out of my sight, kissing me, hugging me, talking with our friends. By the end of the evening, Marinus has passed out on Haymitch’s lap, Beetee is too tired to wheel himself around the backyard and Tavya is tired enough to let Delly drag her everywhere. We have a few hired vehicles drive everyone back to hotel and eventually it’s just Peeta, Annie, Marinus, and I left at the house once more.

                I start to pull down the ribbons from the fence, but Annie tells me it can wait until the morning. “I’m exhausted,” she says, pulling Peeta (who’s carrying Marinus) and I inside with her. “Aren’t you?”

                I nod and follow her upstairs, watch Peeta deposit Marinus in his room and then head into ours. “Goodnight, Annie,” I murmur in the dark hallway. “Thank you for everything.”

                When I get into our bedroom Peeta closes the door behind me. I turn around and gesture for him to undo the buttons on my dress, but he doesn’t touch them.

                “Just wait,” he says, “There one thing left to do before we’re married.”

                I know he’s talking about a toasting, but I’m sure there’s not a fireplace to be found in all of District 4. I assumed we would wait until we got home. He steps over behind the bed and pulls out a metal contraption the Annie showed me on our first day here. A _toaster_. He plugs it into an outlet in the wall and retrieves a plate with a few slices of bread. That must have been what he was doing in the kitchen all morning: baking me a familiar loaf of white, dense bread. He takes my hand and leads me to sit on the floor next to him, popping the bread into the toaster and depressing the button.

                I can already feel my eyelids drooping with fatigue and I lean over to rest my head on his shoulder. “Long day,” he says, stroking my lower back. “Good day.”

                “Yes,” I tell him. I can smell the bread beginning to toast and kick off my shoes, tucking my feet under myself so that my entire body leans into Peeta’s.

                “You know this loaf?” he asks me, when the bread pops up. It’s a little darkened from its time in the toaster, and likely hot, so Peeta’s careful when he takes a piece between his thumb and his forefinger and holds it out for me to take.

                “Yes,” I say, taking the bread from him. “This bread is like you,” I murmur, holding my toast up so that he can take a bite. He chews slowly and watches me carefully, looking a little confused. I don’t say anything else, but bite into his piece of toast and chew thoughtfully. Peeta’s free hand continues to stroke small patterns on my back. I close my eyes and let the toast rest on my knee, my breath coming out more evenly as I press further into Peeta.

                “How is it like me?” he finally asks when I don’t finish my thought after a few moments of silence.

                “It saved my life,” I murmur as I fall asleep.


	6. Year Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd try something a little different with this chapter. Instead of focussing on one or two large events that occurred during the year, I wrote a number of sort of vignettes. I like the way it depicts their interactions over a larger span of time - let me know what you thought of one style versus the other!

_Year Eight_

                “Good morning, Mrs. Mellark.” Three years of marriage, and I still think Peeta will never tire of calling me that. I crack open an eye to see him hovering over me while I lie in bed, still mostly asleep. The room is half lit with the gauzy, rose color of dawn and Peeta’s blond hair reflects the sunshine in dappled pinks and oranges. He has a plate in one hand and two mugs in the other.

                “Breakfast in bed?” I croak, my voice hoarse from ten hours of sleep. I’ve been sick with something for the last few days, likely the flu, and Peeta’s been alternating caring for me with Greasy Sae. I guess today is her day off since she’s usually the one to wake me with hot tea and biscuits.

                “I made you a treat,” he says, setting the mugs on the side table. He lowers himself down so that he’s sitting next to me on the bed and waves the plate under my nose. I’m sure if I could smell, I would be drawn in by the delicious scent of Peeta’s cheese buns – as it is, I’ll have to make do with taking in the sight of the perfectly browned bread in front of me. I reach out a shaky hand and snatch one off of the plate before he has the opportunity to take it away from me.

                Peeta puts the plate on the side table and takes a bun for himself, settling back against the headboard so that his hip is near my shoulder. He grabs my mug of tea and balances it on his knee so that I can grab it if I want it. “How are you feeling today? Any better?”

                I shrug my shoulders and pop a small piece of the still warm bun into my mouth, take a moment to savor the bite of the sharp cheddar mixed in. “I didn’t throw up yesterday,” I mutter around the food in my mouth.

                “Well that _is_ something.” Peeta shifts his legs to get comfortable and I rest an elbow on his thigh. “It’s going to be beautiful out today,” he says. “Would you like to take a walk?”

                “Don’t you need to work?” I look out the window and see the sun has almost risen entirely. “Shouldn’t you be at the bakery right now?”

                Peeta grins. “I gave myself the day off. I think some fresh air would do you a little good. We’ll just take a short walk, and if you get tired, we can turn around. I can even carry you back.” I look at Peeta and raise an eyebrow. “Okay, I _will not_ carry you back.”

                I finish my cheese bun and then my tea and when the food stays down, I indulge in another, suddenly starving now that some of my appetite seems to have returned. I’m still a little warm and feverish, but I am feeling much better and I’m sure that Peeta’s suggestion of a walk would do me a world of good in speeding my recovery. I have never been one to flourish while indoors. After I’ve managed to stuff three cheese buns down, I shuffle into the bathroom and bathe quickly. My hair is matted and greasy after so long in bed, and the water and soap feel divine on my unwashed skin. I tip my head back under the spray and enjoy the feeling of being _clean_ before I get out and towel myself off.

                Peeta’s gone when I come out of the bathroom to change, likely down to the kitchen to clean up or in the study, painting while he waits for me. After eight years together, we function like a mostly oiled machine. There will always be hiccups for us, road bumps that we have to try and maneuver over together, but Peeta and I manage these issues as one. We function better together now than we ever have, and sometimes when I think back to our first Hunger Games, when I assaulted him for telling all of Panem about his crush on me, I can’t help but smile. If only that Katniss knew what the boy with bread would become for her.

                I sit on the bed, still a little weak from lack of food, and brush out my hair before twisting it up into a loose bun – I’m not interested in putting forth more effort than necessary today, and that includes braiding my hair. Once I’m dressed, I check the study for Peeta. He’s not painting so he must be somewhere downstairs.

                My husband is in the kitchen, washing the dishes he dirtied baking cheese buns for me and a warm feeling bubbles in my chest that I have to focus not to act on. “Thank you for breakfast,” I say, coming up behind him to wrap my arms around his waist. Peeta’s arms are soapy almost to his elbows – he tends to be a very thorough dishwasher – and he seems to have splashed some water on his shirt. He looks over his shoulder at me and grins, a shy, sweet smile that still hasn’t changed after all we’ve been through, and wiggles his hips a little.

                “Still feeling up to the walk?” he asks, draining the soapy water from the sink. The dishes are all lined up on the drying rack and he towels his hands off before turning to face me.

                “I think so,” I say. The sun has risen fully outside and the few birds that are still around chirp loudly enough to be heard through the shut windows and doors.

                “It’s a little chilly,” Peeta worries suddenly, “will you be warm enough?”

                “I’ll be fine.” He looks dubious. “I’ll wear a coat.”

                It _is_ pretty cold outside, even with my long, wool coat to keep the heat in, but I’m not about to admit that to Peeta. I tug my scarf a little tighter around my neck and jam my hands into my pockets. Peeta grins at me knowingly – I’ve given myself away. He starts to tell me about a wedding cake that he made the other day – they are his favorite by far, from small sugar flowers to fancy frosting colors, Peeta is most able to show his artistic talent on the multiple tiered, extravagant orders he gets for weddings. I’m listening to him intermittently, hmming and nodding in all the right places, and giving the majority of my attention to the district as it wakes up.

                Peeta and I meander slowly up the main street, pausing frequently so that I can rest and catch my breath. We see Thom, who’s helped so much with the rebuilding of 12, walking his twin girls to school, and Angie, Peeta’s right hand in the bakery, flipping the closed sign around. She waves to us from the shop window while she turns a birthday cake to display the ribbon like swirls of frosting on one side. As we continue on our walk, more and more of the population continues to come out. There aren’t many people in the street, since it’s still quite cool, but shop lights continue to turn on and signs flip over. The man who now runs the hardware store gives Peeta and me a friendly wave. I’m not sure if he’s this friendly with everyone or if he just likes us so much because Peeta’s been fumbling through building his own brick oven in our backyard over the past few months. We have spent a lot of money fixing Peeta’s mistakes because he’s _sure_ he doesn’t have to ask for help.

                When we get to the end of the main drag, where they’ve recently broken ground for the new medicine factory which will produce District 12’s main export in the near future, Peeta asks me how I’m feeling, if we should head back home yet. My chest feels a little sore from the cold and I am a little shaky, but it’s been nice to get out. I compromise with myself and tell him we can take the long way home, detouring to go past the meadow before heading back home.

                We’re halfway back when I start to feel like maybe the detour was a bad idea. I’m doing alright, but feeling like I might need to sit down if I intend not to fall over. Peeta gets close and threads his arm through mine. He’s been quiet since we left the main part of town and hums mildly next to me – always out of tune, but always a happy sound in my ears. I stop for a moment near a stump, a tree that was probably chopped down sometime after the fence was removed, and drop onto it. Peeta wanders off, treading carefully through the tall grass.

                There was I time when I was unable to stomach coming to this place, when all I could see were the faces of the people I had condemned to death, twisted and contorted in pain, piled unlovingly on one another in a deep pit. That gaping maw in the earth was covered over long ago and now tall grass and wildflowers grow in the ground. This place has come to offer me peace, once more, but there’s still a part of me that aches whenever I sit here for too long.

                Peeta comes back to me with a bouquet of “wildflowers” that look suspiciously like onion blossoms and when I look at him with an arched brow, he can’t help the quick dissolve of his straight face. He tries to keep it together for a moment, but I can see his lips quiver and there’s a smile in his eyes he can’t hide from me. Nine years ago, such a long time but so short, he offered me a bouquet like this. It means something different now, while I sit on this stump and try to catch my breath, when he shoves them in my face. He guffaws a little when I actually take the blossoms from him and set them across my lap. “We’ll put them in a vase,” I offer and he chuckles, dropping onto the ground next to me. It has to be cold down there, on the half frozen ground, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

                “What else are we going to do with our stolen time today?” he asks me, turning to watch as I wind the stems of the blossoms together, creating a chain.

                “You could work on your oven,” I offer.

                “No.” Peeta is blunt. “No, no, today is about Katniss getting better and Peeta not losing a thumb.”

                “Or his temper,” I mutter before grinning at him. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Peeta swear as much as he has while trying to build that monstrosity in my backyard.

                “Or his temper,” he agrees. I continue to curl the stems around one another, making a purple version of the daisy chains that Prim so liked to make in our youth.

                “Would you like to do some baking?” Peeta asks, a little hopefully. I am no good at helping him bake, but I’ll humor him by helping to frost his homemade cookies or measuring out ingredients. Peeta enjoys the company in the kitchen and I like spending time with him, especially when it means we’re not playing a game that I’m going to lose (last time we played checkers, I may or may not have thrown the board at him).     

                “I wonder how it is that I haven’t managed to grow fat yet,” I say, finishing the crown of purple flowers. I drop it onto Peeta’s head and he adjusts it so that it won’t fall off.

                “With your constant hunting? I should be feeding you twice as much,” he admonishes. “How are you feeling? Up to heading back yet?”

                I’ve caught my breath and the chill is starting to seep through my coat so I nod and push myself off of the stump. I’m fine on my own, but Peeta takes my arm once more and starts rambling about all the things we could bake or do today. He, wisely, avoids offering a game of checkers.

                Once we arrive back in Victor’s Village, Peeta’s out of ideas and he’s grown quiet. I’m singing in a mumbling sort of voice, content and happy, even though I’m stuffed up once more and feel like I could use a nap. I see a light on in Haymitch’s house, some smoke pouring out of his chimney. A feeling washes over me and I sort of feel like I’m going to cry for a moment. I realize, as Peeta and I trudge up the steps to our house, what this feeling is. Eight years ago, as I left the Capitol to serve what I thought would be a prison sentence, Effie Trinket told me that I needed to find the life of a Victor. This feeling, I realize, as I hang up my coat and scarf, is what that is. I have found it, finally, in a town that is my home, in the arms of my husband, in the company of new and old friends, in the telephone calls from other districts, in the letters I write my mother once a month – I have found the life that I want, and that is the only victory I need.

                Two days later, I’m completely recovered and Peeta and I have returned to our usual routine. When I wake in the morning, he’s already left for the bakery, but he did think to leave me some chocolate croissants on the table. I’m usually not interested in sweets for breakfast, but I take one and savor it while I stand in the kitchen, planning my day. It’s still early enough in spring that there’s a chill in the air and some frost on the ground, but most of the animals I’d like to hunt are sleepily coming out of hiding. We’ve had a lot of turkey and hare this winter, but I wouldn’t mind some venison, or even boar. The larger animals bring in enough meat that we have plenty to trade and there’s more tender cuts on them as well. If I bag a full grown deer, I’ll need help bringing it back, but when I’m offering meat for trade it’s not difficult to find someone to give me a hand.

                My walk through town to the woods is quiet – it’s a Sunday, which means few people rise early enough to be out and about that I’ll pass them on my way – and when I pass the border where the fence used to be, I have to work to silence my footfalls on the crunchy grass of spring. A squirrel darts across trees overhead, but I conserve my arrows, waiting for some larger game.

                My morning in the woods has me returning home not with the deer for which I had hoped, but a good sized pair of white hares and a pail of small, winter strawberries. The berries, miniscule because of their winter growth, wouldn’t be very good on their own, but I’m sure with some sugar, they’d go well in a pie, or a tart. I decide to swing by the bakery and drop them off for Peeta – his customers will be very excited by the surprise offering of fruit in the cold. As I walk up, I can see from the sidewalk that Peeta is standing at the counter talking to someone. He keeps glancing down, likely to write their order on a note pad, and then looking up with a smile.

                I drop my game bag by the door outside – he’s never said anything, but I get the feeling Peeta’s not overly fond of having dead animals in his bright, pastel bakery – and open the door. A bell overhead jingles and Peeta looks up, ready to greet a potential customer and his smile brightens. “Hello, miss,” he says. “I’ll be with you in a just a moment,” he tells me with a wink. I busy myself looking at the different cookies and breads he has on display while he finishes up with his customer.

                The woman he’s serving looks unfamiliar, and I wonder if she’s one of the people who have moved to 12 recently to help with the medicine factory. She’s young, maybe a little bit older than me, and has short, black hair. She’s not beautiful like Annie, with her soft charm, but she is stunning. She has pale skin and a sharply lined jaw that make me think of Johanna, even though she really doesn’t look anything like her. Her voice is honey sweet though, as she describes the details of what she wants on her cake. It sounds like a birthday cake to me, but quite extravagant. She must come from the Capitol if she already has enough money to buy something like that.

                Once she’s done telling him what she wants, Peeta lists it all back to make sure he has her description right. She nods and then asks if he’ll be decorating the cake himself. “I’m sure your other staff are very competent,” she tells him, leaning awkwardly on the counter, “but I’ve heard that you’re the best there is.”

                “Angie is just as good as I am,” Peeta agrees, pointing to cake displayed in the front window. “She bakes and decorates most of our display cakes. But if that’s what you want, of course I’ll make sure that I’m the one to make it.”

                The lady nods and reaches out a hand to touch Peeta’s arm. My stomach clenches and I have to fight the urge to surge forward. Instead my eyes widen a little when Peeta politely pulls his hand away, pretending like nothing happened. “That is what I want,” she says, her voice lower and softer than it was before. My skin crawls, but I stay where I am, trying very hard to look interested in the price of a loaf of rye bread. This cake she’s buying will be a good sale for Peeta and it wouldn’t do to embarrass him in front of her by acting like a crazed, jealous fool.

                “Alright, then!” Peeta says, pulling away from the counter. There’s no way she can reach him now unless she lunges across the expanse of wood between them, but I wouldn’t put it past her to try. I move on to looking at a tray of cinnamon rolls so that I can be closer to the register and see her from the corner of my eye.

                “When I asked around in town, everyone said Mellark’s was _the place_ to buy a custom made birthday cake, but they never told me how cute the proprietor was.” I snap my head up, unable to maintain the charade of indifference any longer. The last time I met someone so bold was when Finnick Odair tried to force feed me a sugar cube.

                Peeta has the decency to blush and he lets out a little, awkward cough. “Well, we don’t have much competition,” he says, punching her total into the register. “We’re the only bakery in town.” She doesn’t look too bothered that he hasn’t responded to her compliment. “That’s going to come up to $50,” Peeta says, looking desperately at me. Does he want me to lose it on this lady? Or is he just trying to apologize for the awkwardness of the situation?

                The lady reaches into her purse for something but then pauses for a moment. “Before I pay, I think you should agree to go on a date with me.”

                Peeta sort of grunt/laughs and rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Aha,” he says, glancing in my direction. I’m sure that there’s a twisted grimace of rage on my face and it’s taking every ounce of will power I have not to shove his amorous patron out of the shop. “I’m actually married,” he says, his words delivered very deliberately and slowly. “But thanks for flattering me.” He tries to smooth over the rejection, but I’m pleased that his refusal came before his kindness.

                “Who’s your wife?” the woman asks, clearly not deterred. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.” It’s true that Peeta doesn’t wear a wedding band when he’s at work – he lost it in three batches of dough before Angie convinced him to take it off and stop wasting the bread.

                “I’m his wife!” I offer, rushing forward with a painfully fake smile on my face. I get closer to this woman than I’d like, the space between us thick with tension and Peeta looks like he might wet his pants. “My name’s Katniss,” I say, and I hold out my left hand and tip it up so that she can see the ring on my finger. “And I wear my ring all the time.”

                At least now this woman has the decency to back down. She lets out an awkward sort of chuckle, but it’s clear she’s not really embarrassed. “Sorry about that,” she says, pulling out her wallet. Peeta looks relieved when she pays and leaves – whether it’s because he didn’t lose the sale, or because I didn’t attack someone in his bakery, I’m not sure.

                “What a pleasant surprise,” he says, watching the door as it closes behind her. “I promise that doesn’t happen every day.” He leans across the counter to kiss me and I can’t help the laugh bubbling in my chest.

                “I wouldn’t be surprised if it did,” I say, attempting to imitate the haughtiness of the woman’s voice, “after all, the proprietor of this establishment is just so _cute_.” I can’t control it and start giggling towards the end of my sentence. Peeta offers me a stern look before he, too, breaks out into a little chuckle.

                “Well, maybe sometimes,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “So, what brings you by on this sunny afternoon?”

                “I found some strawberries for you,” I offer, holding up my pail. “Tarts? Pie?”

                “Chocolate covered strawberries?”

                I wrinkle my nose. “To small, not sweet enough.” Peeta nods and flips up the barrier so that I can come into the back of the bakery with him. Greg, Angie’s little brother and the newest addition to Peeta’s ever growing list of employees, is in the back kneading dough. Angie is on a stool make sugar roses.

                “Hey, Katniss!” Angie says, offering me a small wave. She’s just a year younger than Peeta and I and she saw everything we went through with the rest of Panem. She’s from District 11, I think, and I’m not sure how her family ended up here – they came before the medicine factory, but maybe it was just for a change of scenery. She treats me like I’m something special: she’s always cautious and respectful around me, even though Peeta is just another person to her. I’m not sure why I get the special treatment, but I’m happy to keep her at arm’s length if that’s what she prefers, even if she is a nice girl. At 15 years old, Greg is less able to remember what Peeta and I used to represent. He treats me like a goofy older sister.

                “What’d you bring for us?” he asks casually, setting the blob of dough to the side and wiping his hands on his apron. I take the lid off of the pail and tip it so that he can see inside. “Strawberries? Will they be any good? I didn’t even know they could grow when it was this cold out.”

                I shrug. “They’re smaller than and not as sweet as summer berries, but they’ll do.”

                “Want to wash and stem them before you go?” Peeta asks, shoving an empty stool under the sink. “I’ve got to get started on Crazy’s cake. She wants it for tomorrow.”

                I roll my eyes and clamber onto the stool. “She was crazy.”

                “Who was crazy?” Greg asks, returning to his loaf of bread.

                “Oh man,” I mutter, running cool water over the fruit, as Peeta starts to tell Greg about his latest customer.

* * *

 

                My husband may kill me, I think. It’s not a thought I’ve had in the last year, but it feels familiar enough that my stomach twists around it. I’m in the downstairs bathroom, back against the door and feet jammed against the counter. My body weight isn’t enough to keep Peeta from knocking down the door, but I’m hoping if I keep my knees locked, the force of the counter will be enough to hold me there.

                On the other side, Peeta is screaming incoherently, ramming his shoulder against the door. He will be sore tomorrow, but I know he will still go to work and knead bread like nothing happened.

                It’s been over a year since Peeta’s last episode and I had foolishly begun to think they would go away. I’d forgotten how much his shouted insults hurt me, no matter how much I tell myself they are all lies, drawn from torture and pain and poison that once coursed through him.

                “You’re a murderer!” he yells, and that one _is not_ a lie, but he thinks I’m the worst sort of murderer, the kind who kills innocents for pleasure and I can’t listen to another syllable of this. I ignore the moisture on my face and press my hands to my ears, praying that Peeta won’t be able to beat the door down.

                When he first saw me, in District 13, and tried to choke me, he was emaciated and weak from torture and he still would have killed me if Boggs hadn’t knocked him out. I know that if he is able to get to me tonight, with eight years of healthy eating and hard work to strengthen him, nothing will keep him from ending my life. We were in the middle of a game of rummy and his rage appeared out of nowhere. The only advantage I had over Peeta was my speed and I sprinted to the first room with a door I could lock: the bathroom. Peeta managed to grab my braid as I ran from him, and he yanked it hard, but didn’t do any lasting damage. Other than my tears and rapidly beating heart, he hasn’t caused me any harm, yet.

                I can hear his screams, muffled by the door and my hands, and feel the vibrations of him pounding on the door. I am not as scared for myself as I am for Peeta. If he does manage to break through the thin barrier between us, what will he do to me? And what will he do to himself when he sees the carnage left behind from his attack?

                It feels like it takes hours, but eventually his yelling quiets and falls into silence; the pounding on the door comes to a halt. I take my hands away from my ears, and listen for a moment, trying to hear what’s happening on the other side. When the silence continues for five minutes, I rise and unlock the door. Before I even have a chance to open it, the door knob twists and the door rockets open. I’m hit in the face by the wood and knocked back onto the toilet.

                Peeta’s on top of me in less than a second, all of his weight bearing down, his hands at my throat. I know that this will be the end of him if I let it happen and I claw at his hands, knee him in the groin. He lets out a huff of pain but his grip on my throat barely relaxes. The edges of my vision begin to blur and then I see Haymitch, wrapping Peeta in a chokehold and ripping him off of me. It’s difficult to hear what’s happening because I'm heaving and coughing and there’s a ringing sound in my ears, but Haymitch is shouting and Peeta’s bellowing. I double over on the toilet seat and wipe the tears off my face while I work to catch my breath. I’m wheezing because my throat is sore from Peeta’s crushing grip, but I manage to finally look up and see that Peeta and my former mentor are no longer in around, though they have left a path of destruction in their wake.

                I stumble out of the bathroom and right the chair that was knocked over. The rushing in my ears quiets and I can hear a scuffle on the front porch. From his shouting, It seems Haymitch was attempting to lead Peeta out to his old home, which has been in a state of disuse for years, but they didn’t manage to get very far. I walk to the door just in time to see Haymitch kick Peeta’s left leg, knocking him off balance. As he falls, my husband hits his head on the railing of the porch. His eyes sort of cross as he falls down and then flicker shut when he smacks the wooden boards beneath him.

                Haymitch and I breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief and then I feel guilty for being anything but concerned about Peeta’s physical well being. From where he’s sitting, half on top of Peeta, Haymitch looks up to take me in. I know I must be a mess, blood shot eyes, ruined hair, and I think I feel blood trickling out of my nose from where the door hit me in the face. I’m sure I’ll have at least one black eye, if not two, in a short while.

                “You okay?” Haymitch asks, gruffly, rising to remove his weight from Peeta’s legs.

                “Peachy,” I murmur. My throat’s still sore and I doubt I’ll be able to speak properly for a while.

                “You should put some ice on…your face,” Haymitch grimaces. “I’ll put him in bed.”

                “He’s going to hurt worse than I do,” I say. “He was ramming his shoulder into the door for at least an hour before he got in.”

                “Well, then get him some ice, too. You first, though.” Haymitch manages to sort of drag Peeta upstairs to bed – I can hear the thump of his feet as he’s lifted up each step – but he needs my help to lift him up onto the mattress. He offers to stay, in case Peeta’s still crazed when he wakes up, but I can feel tears building behind my eyes, and I know I’m not going to be able to keep it together much longer, so I thank him for his help but tell him to go.

                There’s already a lump forming on the back of Peeta’s head and I wedge an ice pack between the pillow and his head. With my tears come exhaustion, so I lay down next to his prone form, letting my head fall onto his chest, ignoring the bit of blood that transfers from my face to his shirt, and cry myself to sleep.

                It’s Peeta who wakes me, combing his fingers gently through my mess of a braid. My head aches, from my throbbing nose to a pounding headache, my throat is still sore and my back seems to be wrenched from when Peeta threw me onto the toilet. As bad as I feel, I know he must be worse.

                “What happened?” he mutters. His voice is thick with emotion and I know he must be crying. If I look at him to check, he’ll see my nose and that will only make things worse, so I stay where I am.

                “How’s your head?” I whisper, unwilling to attempt full volume yet.

                “Feels like there’s an elephants standing on it. And my shoulder…I won’t be making bread for a while.” I start to shake my head but stop at the rattled feeling.

                “What happened?” he asks. “How bad did I hurt you?” I know he’s crying now, without even looking at him, because his hand moves from my head and I hear him wipe at his face before he starts rubbing small circles on my upper back.

                “What do you remember?” I whisper again. I don’t want to talk too much, or he’ll get suspicious about my volume.

                “I remember shuffling the cards to play rummy. And then…we were here. I just woke up.”

                “I don’t know what happened, but something…enraged you. Haymitch stopped you before any real damage was done.”

                “Except for my head,” he huffs. “Why won’t you look at me? What did I do? Did I hurt you?”

                “No too bad,” I lie, still refusing to look at him, and avoid answering his first two questions.

                Peeta starts to sit up but stills when he realizes how much it would hurt to do so. “Come on, Katniss. Look at me.” I sit up with a barely concealed wince and look at him. I have no clue what I look like, but if Peeta’s horror is anything to go by, it’s not good.

                “Jesus Christ, what did I do to you?” he reaches out a gentle hand, probably to run over a bruise, and I instinctively flinch. Peeta pulls his hand back, looking hurt but resigned.

                “It was mostly the door,” I try to reassure him. “I locked myself in the bathroom and after a while you were quiet. When I unlocked the door, you pushed it open and it hit me in the face. You didn’t do much.”

                He reaches out again and strokes a finger down my neck. “I choked you,” he murmurs. His words catch in his throat and he closes his eyes, bites his lips into a thin line. He’s trying not to cry again. I didn’t think that there might be marks on my neck, but there were last time he choked me, so it isn’t too surprising.

                “It wasn’t you,” I tell him, “not really.”

                “I’m a fucking monster,” he croaks. He’s too emotional and it can’t be helping his head injury.

                “Haymitch knocked you out on the porch,” I warn him, “don’t hurt yourself.”

                “I’m fine,” he huffs. “Look at you, Katniss. God,” He suddenly pulls his hand back, like my skin has burnt him. “What are you even doing here?”

                “Taking care of you. You probably need another ice pack. I didn’t do very well and fell asleep on the job.”

                “I gave you a nosebleed,” he says, swiping his thumb across the blood that’s dried on my upper lip and chin.

                “I told you, it was the door.”

                “I hate it when you make excuses for me,” he grunts.

                “I’m not making _excuses_ for you,” I reply, raising my voice a little, even though it hurts. “I’m telling you the truth. Trust me, if this was something you did of your own volition, I wouldn’t be here, Peeta.”

                “I hate myself,” he mutters.

                “Well, don’t. Okay?” I’m not sure what to say, Peeta is the one who is an expert in all things comforting. “Because _I_ love you.” He smiles sadly at me so it seems to have worked, at least a little. Even though my head aches with every movement, I get Peeta to pull forward so that I can remove the melted ice pack. “I’m going to go clean up and then I’ll get you a new one of these, okay?” Peeta closes his eyes in resignation and then leans back once more.

                I go to our bathroom first to wash the blood off of my face. No wonder Peeta was so upset – I’m pretty messed up. There’s blood on my shirt and my nose and both eyes are starting to purple with a massive bruise. I take off my dirty shirt and wet a wash cloth, dabbing and swiping cautiously at the caked on blood with cool water. Once I’m done, I decide to fix my braid – it’s one thing that I can make look right and I’m sure it will help Peeta to see me less out of sorts. My head hurts too much to make a very tight braid, so it’s puffy and loose, but it’s better than it was. I drop the dirty shirt and wash cloth into a basket of dirty clothes before going back into our bedroom.

                Peeta watches me with anxious eyes as I put on a clean shirt and head downstairs. I swap his melted ice pack for two new ones – thankful that we have a plethora of them in case of hunting mishaps – and head back upstairs. He leans forward dutifully and lets me position his behind his head. I lay on my back next to him and rest mine on my face.

                “What if this happens again?” he asks, after a few moments of silence. “You’re not safe around me.”

                “Shush,” I tell him, reaching over to grab his hand. I lace our fingers together. “You’re making my head hurt.”

* * *

 

                We don’t have guests often, so it doesn’t surprise me when Peeta’s elated to have someone at the house. I’m marginally surprised that he’s so excited to have Johanna Mason to stay, but he is a social being, so I suppose it shouldn’t shock me, too much.

                I’m also not surprised with Johanna doesn’t arrive on the train, but instead a loud sort of motorized bicycle. I’m sure the journey from District 7 to here took a long time, not being able to travel at the fast speed the train could reach, but I’m also aware that Johanna would likely rather travel on her own. I’m on the porch when she arrives, drawn out by the loud grinding sort of sounds her transportation makes. She turns it off and leans it against the side of the house, glaring at me. “Staring at it isn’t gonna make it go away, moron.”

                Ah, how I’ve missed her. “Welcome to my home,” I say cheerily, delighting in the frown I get in return.

                “Where’s your wife?” she grunts, untying her bag from above the rear wheel of her bike. “He can take my bag in. It weighs a fucking ton.”

                “What did you bring me?” I ask, staying on the porch.

                “Nothing.” She glares at me and drops her bag on the ground.

                “Peeta,” I turn around and call him from the kitchen, where I think he’s making cinnamon rolls, “Johanna’s not strong enough to carry her bag. Can you come and help her?”

                He comes out a moment later, taking his time and smirking and Johanna’s “fuck you” glare. I really _have_ missed her.

                “Come inside,” I finally say, extending my arm as an offer, “and tell me about that thing you rode here on.”

                Peeta grunts quietly when he picks up her bag, “This _is_ heavy. What’d you put in it?”

                “Beer,” Johanna girns. “Lots of beer.”

                I’m not sure what beer is, but her expression tells me I don’t want any.

                As it turns out, Johanna rode here on a “motorcycle”, a name that makes sense to me. “I met this girl from 6 who fixes up old stuff, from the Dark Days.” I nod at her while she puts her bottles of beer into the fridge. “She and I fixed that one together and then she let me buy it for half her usual price, since I did half the work. It runs just okay, but it’s better than being on that ridiculous train every time I need to get somewhere.”

                “How does the motor run?” All of the cars I’d ever been in were run on electricity, and the train is powered by magnets and bio-fuel.

                “Water,” she says, with a shrug. “Bella, that was this chick’s name, upgraded it. It used to run on gasoline,” which was something we read about a lot when we studied the Dark Days in school, but I don’t think anybody uses it anymore, “but she changed the engine. Couple gallons of water will keep me going for about eight hours.”

                “Then why is the engine so loud?” Peeta asks, tromping back downstairs from stowing Johanna’s bag. “If it’s running on water, it should be quiet.”

                Johanna lets out a snort. “Aren’t we smart?” She takes one bottle and brings it to the table, twisting the cap off while she sits down. “It should be basically silent, you’re right. But there’s just something so…right about waking everybody up when you ride your bike home in the middle of the night. The noise is purely…cosmetic.” She offers me a grin before taking a swig from the bottle. “You wanna try?” she asks, holding it out for me.

                I’m not sure I’ll like it, but I take a tentative sip anyways. It’s yeasty and makes me think of some sort of bread – but not very good. I crinkle my nose and hand the bottle back to her with a shake of my head. “No thanks.”

                “Jeffrey’s coming tomorrow, and then it’ll be a real party,” Johanna says, taking another long draught from the bottle, as if to say “more for me!” Jeffrey is her strange boyfriend from District 1. I’ve had a lot of trouble picturing him, a man who Johanna says looks like a Capitolite with all of his tattoos and piercings, but abhors them almost as much as we do, even though he was never in the games. Apparently, his brother and sister were reaped for two consecutive years of Games, and even though they were Careers, they weren’t Victors. I’m intrigued to meet someone who I have trouble imagining with Johanna – the only person I remember Johanna showing any romantic interest is Gale and I think that was mostly because she liked how much it bothered him.

                “Where’d you meet him?” Peeta asks her. Johanna holds the bottle out for him to try it, but when I grimace at him, he shakes his head.

                "I was taking a road trip with Bella. We stopped in 1 to relax for a bit and we hit it off at a bar. I ended up ditching Bella for like five days to hang out with Jeffrey, but she didn’t seem too pissed when I finally came back to the hotel with another biker chick for her. She likes the ladies,” Johanna says, unnecessarily wiggling her eyebrows at me. She leans back in her chair, resting her elbow on the seat back. “So, I haven’t seen you guys since your disgustingly sweet wedding. How are things in the Mellark household?”

~

                The moment Jeffrey gets off of the train (he doesn’t have a motorcycle like Johanna), I can understand why she likes him. He has a scowl on his face, his hair is shaved on two sides with a floppy ridge of hair down the middle. He looks like someone who would scream in your face and then expect you to thank him for not stabbing you. But he’s very polite when we greet him, thanking Peeta and I for letting him stay at our house and he swears less than Johanna, so I guess he’s just a sheep in wolf’s clothing – Johanna’s perfect opposite.

                He proves to be a lot of fun, too. He drinks as much as Haymitch, but doesn’t get grossly intoxicated. Instead, he has dozens of hilarious stories to tell us about the fools he’s taught in his English classes and the idiots he’s met during his time off, when he traveled across Panem, photographing the destruction after the rebellion. He promises Peeta and me that he’ll show us some of his work later that night. Jeffrey also teaches us some new card games and by the end of the night, we’re all exhausted from laughing so much. 

               It isn’t until the two of them go to bed and Peeta and I are kept awake for at least an hour by quiet moans and loud thumping that I realize he may be a difficult guest to have.

                Peeta rolls over and grins at me in the lamplight while we listen to Johanna and her boyfriend going at it down the hall. His raised eyebrow makes me shake my head with a giggle. “Come on,” Peeta says with a devious grin, “they’re being so loud, they won’t even hear us.”

                I have a novel resting on my chest, but I’m having trouble focussing as he inches closer and toys with the strap of my nightgown. “Peeta,” I argue, “that’s gross. We’ve got company.”

                “Who have no problem having sex in our guest bed,” he jokes, dipping to kiss me. I return his kiss, but I’m sure I’m not going to be able to do anything beyond that – I can hear them and Johanna’s rising moans are a particular turn off for me. “We don’t even have to _have sex_ ,” he says, “I could just, you know…” I don’t know, but Peeta rolls over onto his stomach and then wiggles down so that his head is just about level with my hips. _Oh_. We don’t do this often, because I always feel a little strange afterwards, but I do enjoy when Peeta puts his lips on me, and for some strange reason, he seems to take pleasure from it, too.

                When I hear Jeffrey swear loudly, I decide that it’s not fair for them to be the only two enjoying themselves tonight. “Okay,” I whisper, dropping my book on the floor. Peeta’s eyes brighten and he pushes up my nightgown and shoves my underwear down. “But be quiet.” I sort of shuffle my legs until my underpants are hanging off of one ankle.

                “ _You_ be quiet,” he says, lifting my leg and ducking under it so that he’s sort of crouched between my thighs. “My mouth’s going to be busy.”

                Peeta starts by kissing the inside of my thigh, all soft lips and gentle nipping teeth. One of his hands is beside my hip, helping him balance, but the other comes up to cup my backside, and he kneads the flesh there, eliciting a half squeak, half moan from me. “What did I say?” he asks, looking up from his task, but there’s a devilish grin on his face that gives him away. He ducks back down and presses a quick kiss somewhere in the vicinity of my navel before continuing down, pressing his face against the most private part of me.

                The first time Peeta suggested we try something like this, I vehemently disagreed. It seemed vulgar and wrong and I sincerely did not understand why he would want to put his mouth _there_. But he kept suggesting, telling me how good he thought it would feel, and finally, in a moment of weakness, I gave in to Peeta’s offers. I really do enjoy the way it feels when drags his flat tongue across the sensitive nub between my legs, how I’m able to press both calves against the muscles of his back, the way that it feels when his shoulders press into my thighs as we both bear down. The entire experience is pleasurable for me, other than the noise, which is the main reason I usually defer from this activity and prefer to have traditional sex. But Johanna and Jeffrey are loud enough at this point that they’re mostly drowning out the sound of Peeta between my legs and I find myself enjoying it more than I ever have before.

                Peeta brings the hand that was massaging my flesh forward and uses it to assist his mouth in his efforts. He’s quickly rewarded when I let out a low sort of mewl and dig my heels further into his back. He looks up for one moment, his chin slick and his pupils blown. “You’re so gorgeous like this,” he murmurs.

                “Don’t stop,” I order him, using an extended arm to press his head back down. I leave my hand in his blond hair while he murmurs something that sounds like “Yes, ma’am,” and dips his tongue into me once more. He bends the elbow of his supporting arm so that he's resting on his forearm and drags his thumb along my lower rib cage and waist, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

                Johanna and Jeffrey have quieted some – it seems that their evening of fun is finally coming to an end. Peeta, on the other hand, is pressing two fingers into me and striving even harder with his mouth. I wonder if intends to show them up. I clamp my free hand over my mouth to stifle a moan as he hits a spot inside of me, but then I feel him shaking his head between my legs. Peeta _is_ trying to make me moan as loudly as Johanna did. I can’t help the grin that forms on my face, but it melts away quickly as I feel a vibrating sensation hum through my body. I know that I’m close when my hips drag up and Peeta has to remove his fingers to hold me down. My body starts to twist and writhe with pleasure and I can feel something like a wave of fire cresting in my lower abdomen. Peeta lets out his own moan of pleasure when I grunt, a sound I’ve never particularly liked making in bed but which seems to drive him crazy.

                He gently scraps his teeth along my sensitive flesh and the motion alone is enough to drag me over the precipice I’ve been tottering on. My thighs seems to clench around his head and his shoulders dig into the soft muscle on the backs of my legs. Peeta takes his hand off of my hips and tucks it between his own legs, watching me through heavily lidded eyes. He doesn’t make much sound as he finishes, but I feel like I’ve made enough noise for the both of us. He crawls up and kisses me goodnight, breathing heavily as he reaches over me to turn off the lamp. I let out a weak moan that’s meant to sound like “sweet dreams”, but it’s mostly a garbled noise by the time it passes my lips.

                The next morning, Johanna takes a mug of coffee onto the porch and when I join her, she grins at me. “I was wondering how long it would take you prudes to catch up.” I just take a sip from my mug of tea and watch Haymitch argue with his geese.


	7. Year Thirteen

_Year Thirteen_

                “Shit,” I mutter, watching my arrow sail narrowly by the turned head of a young buck. I shouldn’t even be hunting today, my nerves are far too shot to aim correctly, and the sight of my fleeing target’s rump is all the convincing I need to hang up my bow. I start to head back towards town, my shoulders slumped forward in angry defeat. It’s not like Peeta and I need the meat to survive, but rarely in the last 15 years have my arrows not flown true.

                The reason for my anxiety is valid enough that I shouldn’t be too upset, but I’m still berating myself as I trudge up the gravel path towards my house. This afternoon, Gale Hawthorne is coming here, to District 12. Whatever job he’s taken in District 2, I’ve been told at least ten times but still can’t recall, it’s brought him here. They’re unveiling the District 12 Hunger Games Memorial live on television and Gale’s job is to introduce it, and Peeta and me, on air. When Plutarch called and explained what he wanted to happen, I was confused and adamant that I wanted no part of it. Not only had I murdered the President of the District that led the rebellion, but after that I had gone into hiding. I’m pretty positive that 99% of Panem’s population believes I’m crazy. And I’m fine with that.

                But because they think I’m crazy, I’m sure that they would not want to see me on their televisions, remembering their lost sons and daughters on what is going to be a very memorable day for the entire country. Plutarch says that he and President Paylor both agree that seeing how Peeta and I have both recovered from the emotional and physical ravages of war will remind people that their daughters and sons did not give their lives in vain. That there are survivors who remember and thank them for their sacrifices in and out of the arena.

                I still refused, even with him delivering what sounded like a very well-rehearsed “convince Katniss Mellark” speech over the telephone.

                It wasn’t until he told me that Peeta had already agreed and that there was a script written for me that I eventually assented. That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.

                Beyond having to see a stranger who used to be my closest confidante and survival partner, and beyond the stress of having to make yet another speech (after being lulled into a false sense of security that I would never have to give one again), there is one more thing that is setting my teeth on edge this week. I’ve tried not to think about it, but with every passing day, the small bubble of terrified anxiety – tinged with just a miniscule amount of hope – has been growing larger and larger in my chest. My cycle, which has come like clockwork over the last 12 or so years of healthy eating and living, is 10 days late. I checked and double checked the calendar in the kitchen this morning just to be sure. As Peeta made me coffee and told me excitedly about Greg’s upcoming wedding, I staved off a panic attack in silence.

                There is no part of me that is ready to be a mother and the worst part about the potential of being pregnant is that while I am horrified at the thought, Peeta will be elated. And then he will be crushed that I am not excited and he will feel awful for being (what he will consider) selfish. Of course, two of the most stressful things I could imagine at this point in my life are happening concurrently.

                Peeta’s pacing the living room when I open the door, wearing a pair of nice slacks but nothing else. His hair is slicked back in a way I haven’t seen him style it in years and he wears a look of frustrated concern on his face when he whips around to look at me as I step inside. “Where have you been?” he asks, although my hunting gear and jacket make my previous location very apparent. “We’re supposed to be at the memorial in an hour. Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

                I raise an eyebrow and intentionally take my time storing my gear. “I’m sorry, Effie, I didn’t realize the prep team was waiting on me.”

                Peeta just scowls. “This is important Katniss. More important than that.” I shrug my shoulders and cross the room to wrap my arms around him. Even though he’s not happy with me, Peeta immediately returns my embrace and kisses the side of my face. “Hey, you okay?” He pulls back a little to look at my face, his lips turned down with just concern, now.

                “I just needed a little time. It’ll be…”I don’t finish my sentence because I don’t like lying to Peeta. Keeping his potential child from him right now may only be a lie of omission, but it’s enough for me. I won’t add any more to that. “I’ll go get ready now, I’ll be quick.”

                Peeta shaves while I shower and then he leans against the counter, chatting about this and that while I pin half of my hair up into a sort of half braid style. I choose a simple outfit to wear, a light green dress that Peeta tends to favor and we leave with more than half an hour to spare. Peeta can sense my tension, more than the event we’re going to really warrants, but he’s stopped talking much now. Instead, he just reaches out and takes my hand, and even though I’m a grown woman, I let him comfort me as we make our way to the town center.

                It’s a beautiful summer day, with the sun in a cloudless sky and a light breeze that makes the Panem flag ripple overhead. There’s already a small crowd gathered in the courtyard of the newly erected Justice Building. The new building looks nothing like the old one: where there was once dank, crumbling concrete, the outside of the building is now sleek glass and metal, swooshing in a strange sort of modern style. It reminds me of some of the buildings I saw in the Capitol, without being overly garish.  It’s not mandatory to attend or view today’s proceedings, but I have a feeling that the majority of Panem will choose to watch. Each district will be unveiling their Memorials today, with speeches from various representatives from in and around the districts. I’m surprised Gale has been asked to come back to 12, since he’s lived in District 2 for so long, but I think the fact that he was responsible for saving so many of the lives of the people here today is a large part of the reason for his presence.

                There’s a large tarp draped over the statue that’s at the front of the crowd, just at the bottom of the stairs in front of the Justice Building. Even though we were all able to see the Memorial as it was being built, everyone now seems to have forgotten that. As Peeta and I walk through a part in the middle of the crowd, I hear quiet conversations of folks wondering what the Memorial will look like. Right now, it looks like a caricature of ghost to me, tall, blue draped plastic, fluttering in the wind. If it wasn’t held down by the polished stones at the base, the tarp would be flapping like an _angry_ ghost. The mental image makes me grin, but then I think people might take that as a sign that I’m still unstable, so I try to keep a straight face.

                There’s two innocuous looking security guards at the top of the stairs – unlike the Peacekeepers of yesteryear, they do not wear uniforms to define them or separate themselves from the rest of us, nor do they carry large weapons. Both guards wear dark, black suits with blue ties and have small hand guns strapped to their hips. They don’t smile, but the woman nods politely at Peeta and I as the man opens the door to the Justice Building to permit us inside.

                As much as its façade differs from its predecessor’s, the inside is even less like it. The old building was dark and musty, ill cared for, and saddening. This building is illuminated with mostly sunlight, let in by the massive windows all around. White tiled floors and lightly painted walls make it feel spacious, fresh, and clean. A woman in a grey suit meets Peeta and me as we enter, a clipboard in her hands. Her appearance gives off a no nonsense sort of feeling, but her smile is kind as she greets us. “Mr. and Mrs. Mellark, we’re so please that you were able to join us today.”

                I nod awkwardly while Peeta thanks her for the opportunity. We’re led up a set of stairs, made of a light colored wood, and into a small sort of conference room. “Mr. Heavensbee has requested that I give you at least 45 minutes to review your speeches before the ceremony commences. You’ll find them laid out there, on the table. Is there anything that I can get you? Coffee, tea, or water?”

                We both tell her we’re fine and she closes the door with a polite nod, letting us know someone will come to get us five minutes before we’re supposed to start. Peeta’s the first one to approach the sheets of paper on the table, his fingers reaching for the creamy stationary. He picks up the first stack of papers and then shoves it out away from himself. “This has your name on it.”

                I walk to the opposite side of the table and slide his speech over to him with shaking fingers. This feels wrong, I think. I might be pregnant, I think. I tell myself to stop thinking.

                It ends up that our speech is a duet of sorts, where Peeta speaks, then I do, and so on, back and forth. It looks like it will only take about ten minutes to deliver but on the last page, there’s an addendum adding time for anything personal Peeta or I might want to say. I think that Plutarch’s taking a dangerous risk by giving me the opportunity to speak off book, but I’m sure he imagines that I won’t have anything to add. And why would anyone ever worry about Peeta saying the wrong thing?

                On the front page is a sentence that makes me stomach clench painfully. “Introduction by Gale Hawthorne. Approx. 4:35.” His name, printed on paper, makes a lump form in my throat. I don’t know how I’m going to face him for the first time in 13 years. I don’t know what I’m going to feel when I see his face, more than a decade older and, hopefully, happier than the last time I set eyes on him. I’m irritated that it will happen on live television, but I suppose I have no one to blame but myself – Gale has been making constant attempts to contact me over the years, which have become more concentrated the closer we got to this ceremony. The fact that we haven’t seen each other is not the consequence of a lack of trying on his part.

                After Peeta and I have been staring silently at our speeches for about 20 minutes, there’s a tentative, almost silent, knock on our door. I don’t bother rising from my seat, and neither does my husband. “Come in.” Peeta sort of groans the words.

                The door swings open silently, well-oiled, and on the other side stands a well built, tall young man with a crooked sort of frown on his face. Gale looks exactly like I remember, jaw squared at the prospect of doing something difficult, hair a little longer than he likes it, his shoulders back. He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit and I’ve never seen him in something so nice. It makes my palms itch to look at him standing there in the doorway, his familiar grey eyes clouded with discomfort, and pain, and a little bit of joy.

                “Hey, Catnip,” he says weakly, as though he’s not sure if he’s even allowed to use the nickname any longer.

                I offer him a smile as weak as his voice. I’m not sure if I should go hug him or shake his hand, so I stay sitting at the table. “Hi, Gale.”

                Peeta is silent across the table, watching my face. I can see his frown out of the corner of my eye. He’s not jealous or angry or nervous, he’s just worried about me. It’s moments like this when I hear Haymitch’s voice in the back of my mind, telling me that never, in 100 life times, would I be worthy of my husband. It’s moments like this when I know that, unquestionably, my ex-mentor was right.

                Gale steps into the room, his large feet almost silent on the plush carpet of the conference room. “Are the speeches okay?” he asks. He clasps his hands behind his back for a moment before apparently rethinking the posture and instead crosses his arms over his chest. This, too, seems uncomfortable, and after a few seconds, he shoves his hands into his pockets and settles on that.

                “They’re fine,” I say. “Exactly what I would say if I had the ability to write a speech about this sort of thing.”

                Gale’s eyebrows contract on his forehead, his eyes trying to communicate something that he can’t seem to vocalize. I don’t know what he wants to say or what I should say, so I tip my head to the side a little and swallow.

                “How are things?” Gale asks, after a few moments of tight silence. My skin feels drawn and my braid is suddenly twisted too tight. I glance at Peeta who’s looking at me with sadness, but he nods reassuringly.

                “They’re…good.” I can say that honestly, after all this time. Maybe this very moment isn't what I dreamed I’d be doing on this day, but my life is good. “I’m happy. We’re happy.” I get the urge to reach across the table and take Peeta’s hand, but I think that might not be very kind right now, so I keep my hands to myself. “Peeta opened a new bakery, and I’ve been do very well with my hunting trade.”

                Gale takes a hand out of his pocket and brushes non-existent lint off of the sleeve of his jacket before closing and opening his hand in a fist. “That’s great to hear,” he tells me, not quite making eye contact. “Your mom tells me things now and then, but it’s nice to hear it from you,” he tells me. It’s quiet enough in the room that I can hear him swallow.

                Peeta’s the one who thinks to ask how _Gale_ is. “And you?” my husband says, saving me from the words that seems to have stuck in my throat. “How are things for you?”

                Gale looks a little shocked, like he forgot Peeta was in the room. “They’re fine. Mostly I’m a desk jockey for Paylor and Heavensbee, but I still get out sometimes.” I’m not sure what a desk jockey is, but I nod solemnly. I don’t ask if he has a girlfriend or a wife or children. “2’s a nice enough place to live,” he says, and I know he means it doesn’t have any ghosts. His face twists sort of painfully and he presses his palm to his stomach. I press my palms to the flat surface of the table, letting the coolness of the wood run through my hands.

                “That’s good, Gale,” I say, struggling to move my lips.

                “I should…I should go get things ready.”

                I know that I should ask him to come over for a drink after, to catch up, but my mouth can’t seem to form the words and I watch him leave the room with heartbreak in his eyes. I’m surprised that after so long, I feel the same clench in my chest that I felt the last time I was the cause of that pain for Gale. As the door closes behind him, I glance over at Peeta, who has dropped his face into his hands. Sometimes I forget that I’m not the only one who’s affected by Gale’s presence.

                “We’ve just got to get through this,” I say. “It’ll be over soon.” Peeta shrugs his shoulders and looks up at me with a sort of half smile, half frown.

                “Okay, Katniss,” he croaks, reaching across the table to finally take my hand.

                About half an hour later, when the lady with the clipboard leads Peeta and I out onto the balcony of the Justice Building, I’m shocked by how much the crowd has grown in the short time. There’s a podium with a flag of Panem next to it and Gale stands there, surveying the people milling about below. There are four chairs, one of which is already filled with Haymitch who is, surprisingly, mostly sober. Peeta and I take our seats and listen to what Gale has to say.

                I’m unable to listen to every word, but he speaks of rebirth and safety, of saviours and fighters, of new dawns and construction from destruction. His words don’t sound like his own and I wonder if it’s because they’ve been written by someone else or if it’s because I don’t know him anymore.

                Peeta and I give our speech and the words go from the page and through me. I’m not really paying attention to what it is that I’m saying: instead I watch the faces in beneath me, some familiar but most of them not. I think about the young children now, Thom’s twins, Sadie and Becky, old enough now to be reaped, but safe from the danger. I think about the children who will come and how the terror of the Hunger Games will fade through generations until eventually it’s a term like the “Dark Days”: representative of something horrific, but with no tangible trauma for people to relate to. As Peeta adds his personal touch at the end, his fingers laced with mine while he speaks, I think of how I am still petrified of bringing a child into the world, but about how I no longer have to fear that they will starve to death while I cannot save them or be taken from me as a representative sacrifice.

                I realize as Peeta as I turn back to take our seats, in the midst of a cacophony of cheers and crying, that as twisted with fear as I may be, today is the perfect day to tell Peeta that he may be a father soon. The air is heavy with remembrance but also with joy of the freedom that was so hard won. People may eventually forget the pain and sacrifice that it took to get here, but today we can remember and recognize how much better the world really is.

                The ceremony ends when the tarp is removed from the statue, a gleaming, opalescent, four-sided pillar with 1,744 tributes' names etched into it, along with hundreds of names of those who fell in the rebellion. It looks very similar to the memorials in the other districts, except that 12’s new crest is at the top of each side, just under the curved edge. Panem’s new motto, “Libertas vivo vixi victum apud dignitate,”* trails around the base of the pillar.

                As people surge forward to touch the statue, some crying, some in silence, Peeta and I are led back into the building. Gale is speaking with a guard, but stops when he sees us being ushered by. He reaches out and touches my arm lightly. I feel a sort of shock at the contact and see the hurt in his eyes when I angle my arm so that it’s out of his reach. “It was good to see you, Katniss,” he says, even though he looks like he’s dying inside. “Try to…try to answer your mail sometime, okay?” I know I won’t be able to speak, so I nod and turn away, letting Peeta guide me out of the building. A part of me aches from abandoning Gale this way, walking away from him when he clearly needs something more than my silence, but I know that I’ll never be able to see past Prim’s last day, her voice screaming my name, and Gale’s voice telling me there was no more rule book.

                I don’t pay attention as Peeta and I head back home, taking the back way to avoid the large group of people blocking our path. It isn’t until we arrive home that I realize how exhausted I am. I could lie down on the front porch and sleep for days, I think. I might do that, if it weren’t for Peeta’s steady grip around my shoulders, guiding me into the house and setting me down on the sofa.

                “That went about as well as we could have hoped for,” Peeta says, dropping himself next to me on the soft cushions.

                I’m not sure what Peeta was hoping for, but I could have done without the entire event.

                “How are you doing?” he asks, curling his arm around my shoulders and pulling our bodies together so that I’m pressed against his rib cage. I feel him breathe in and out. Slow and steady against the hand that I place on him. His shirt is smooth and feels strange under my fingers – Peeta usually wears a soft, cotton t-shirt to work and around the house. I’m not used to the starched fabric on him. But the warmth of his body still seeps through it, and he still smells like our soap, and I can still feel the ropy muscles beneath the material. After a moment or two, when I don’t reply, Peeta shakes me a little – gently. “That’s must’ve been difficult for you, seeing Gale. I think you handled it well.”

                I stroke my fingers down his side, tracing the seam line of his dress shirt. Peeta lets out a little choked huff – I’m tickling him. He uses his free hand to still mine, holding it in a light grasp. “Katniss, talk to me. What’s going on?”

                I sort of shrug my shoulders and my head at the same time and Peeta pushes back so that he can look me in the eyes. I close them and tip my head down, rest it in his armpit. “It was alright,” I say. How can I tell him that it was difficult to see Gale because of who he’d been, but not difficult because of who we both were now? How can I tell him that my heart breaks when I see how much I’ve hurt someone who used to mean so much to me, but that I’m not heartbroken because he’s no longer a part of my life? All of the words that I want to say and all of the things that I’m feeling tumble around inside of me, held back by some unknown barrier. So I’m pretty sure it’s a surprise to both of us when I open my mouth and say, “I think I might be pregnant.” _Way to change the subject._ When Peeta doesn’t say anything, I tip my chin up so that I can look at him.

                He’s staring at a point on the wall, his mouth sort of opening and closing. His eyes scrunch closed for a moment and then he opens them and looks down at me.

                “Why do you think that?”

                “Well, my cycle is 10 days late. It’s never been late before, I mean, not since the Hunger Games.”

                “Ten days?” Peeta asks. His voice sort of cracks. “Is that…is that a long time?”

                “Yes.”

                “Well.” Peeta’s hand tenses on my back and I feel his ribs expand and contract rapidly. His face is calm, but it’s the only part of him that is. “Do you want to be?” his voice is so quiet, I wonder if he actually intended for me to hear the question.

                I want to lie to Peeta. I want him to be happy and excited about the possibility of a little girl with blonde curls sitting on his lap. I want him to feel excited and for his heart to flutter with anticipation, not fear. But I can’t, I can’t tell him something that is so untrue it makes my insides coil. “No,” I tell him, quiet enough that maybe he thinks I didn’t want to say it either.

                Peeta lets out a long, low, keening sort of noise. A cross between a sigh and a sob. “Okay,” his finally says. He’s not crying, but he sounds like he should be. “What do we do?”

                I don’t know what to say. What does Peeta mean? Does he mean I should get rid of the potential baby? Does he mean, how do we raise a child that you don’t want? Peeta’s question is so vague that it unsettles me further and I feel the need to rise and calm my frantic heartbeat. I push myself off of the couch and stand in front of him, trying not to look angry. Trying not to look contrite. Peeta doesn’t need my emotions right now, I can see the storm behind his eyes and I know he’s feeling too many of his own.

                “We should call my mom,” I tell him, turning to study the fireplace. “She has some test we can do to find out if I’m really pregnant.”

                The room is silent for too long. I can hear someone outside chopping wood, a way off – muted by distance and walls. Someone screams happily and some of Haymitch’s geese honk in response. Peeta says nothing, but I can hear his hushed breaths as I stare resolutely at a small chip in the paint.

                “Please come here,” he finally says. Peeta’s voice is a little muffled, and when I turn to look at him, he’s hunched forward and put his head in his hands. As soon as I step towards him, he jerks up and reached out to grip my hand. “I…I want you to know, whatever happens: pregnant or not pregnant, baby or no baby, I’ll support you. I love _you_ , Katniss, first and foremost. Don’t think that this changes anything…between us.”

                I frown at him. This changes _everything_. I can feel pain and excitement radiating off of him. I feel like I’m going to vomit. Instead I squeeze his fingers in mine. “I’ll go call my mother,” I tell him, still holding his hand as I walk around the sofa. “The sooner we know for sure, the sooner we can decide what will happen.” I let go of Peeta’s hand first, and he just lets his arm fall onto the upholstered fabric.

                We keep the phone in a small nook off of the kitchen, and I tuck myself in, sitting on the stool and grabbing the receiver. Even though we only talk once a month, I have my mother’s number memorized and dial it slowly. It’s agonizing, watching the dial rotate back after each number, knowing I am one step closer to the realization of something that will break me. When the phone starts ringing, I have to fight the urge to hang up.

                As I wait for my mother to answer the other end, I hear Peeta puttering around in the kitchen. He’s taking stuff out of the pantry and something clacks on the counter. I think he’s going to bake something.

                _“Hello?”_

My mother’s voice still jars me sometimes, all these years later, on the telephone. I blink for a moment and don’t say anything.

                _“Hello?”_ she says again. There’s concern in her word.

                “Mom, it’s me.” I don’t have to say my name. There is only one person left in the world who calls her mom. My face crumples at the thought and I suck in a tremulous breath.

                _“Katniss, I didn’t expect to hear from you for another week. What a nice surprise. How was the ceremony today? How is Gale?”_ Her voice lowers when she asks about him, as if she’s not sure whether she should or not.

                “It was fine. He was…healthy,” I tell her, trying to move on to the reason I called. “I need to ask you something, but please don’t read into it too much.”

                _“Okay, what is it?”_

                “Is there a test…something I could do to find out if I am pregnant?”

                _“You think you might be pregnant?”_ I can hear the struggle between doctor and possibly-soon-to-be-a-grandmother in her voice. She sounds worried, excited, and clinical all at once.

                “I don’t know. I’m late. I don’t feel any symptoms, but it’s been 10 days.”

                _“I’ll send you a test in the mail. I’ll rush the package and it will come on the train tomorrow morning. It’s a pretty good test, but no matter what it says, you won’t know for sure until you go to a doctor.”_

“There’s nothing I can do here? With herbs or something?”

                _“This test is better than any herbal tea, Katniss. Just be at the train station tomorrow around 9 to pick up the package. Okay?”_

“Okay.” I don’t say anything for a moment, and I can hear my mother’s quiet breathing on the other end of the phone. In the kitchen, Peeta is quietly cracking some eggs. “Mom,” I tell her after a moment, lowering my voice and hoping that Peeta won’t hear. “I’m scared.”

                _“It’s going to be okay.”_ She doesn’t call me honey, but I can hear the longing to do so in her voice. “ _You and…you and Prim, you were the best things in my life, even if I didn’t do the best job of showing you that. If you’re pregnant, it’ll be okay. If you’re not, that’ll be okay, too. We’ll manage.”_

                I don’t know why she says “we”. She lives in another district entirely and hasn’t been a physical part of my life for years. It’s Peeta - who still has episodes and holds the rolling pin tightly in white knuckled hands or cries for hours - and I – who stay in bed for weeks and won’t eat or speak for days at a time, who locks myself in closets and listens to Peeta beg me to come out from the other side of the door – it’s Peeta and I, broken as we are, who will have to raise this child. How, I ask myself, as I listen to Peeta mix something in a bowl, how will we ever be able to do this?

                _“Are you still there?”_

                “Yeah, sorry. I’ll be at the train station at 9. Thanks.” I hang up the phone before she can say goodbye and sense Peeta hovering beside the nook. I look up and he’s standing there, watching me, a large ceramic bowl tucked in the crook of his elbow. He looks at me a little sadly, but then holds up a wooden spoon that’s covered in creamy batter.

                “I’m making sugar cookies,” he says, holding the utensil out. “Want a taste?”

                I lean forward and take lick some of the batter off of the spoon. It’s extremely sweet and thick in my mouth. It’s delicious and the cookies will, of course, be perfect. I feel like I’m going to cry. I close my mouth and lick my lips. “It’s good,” I say, because any more words will be too many. Peeta nods his head, drops the spoon in the bowl, and stays in the little archway, blocking my exit.

                “What did she say?”

                “She’s sending a test on the train tomorrow.” I rise and try to shuffle by Peeta. He still doesn’t move and stands firm when I press on his chest. I let my forehead fall to his shoulder and let out a little huff of desperation. “Please let me by.”

                “Don’t do this, Katniss,” he says, still unmoving. He’s traded his dress shirt for an apron and his undershirt is soft against my forehead. I stare into the bowl of batter.

                “Do what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.

                “Please don’t shut me out. This is something we can do together. Let me be there for you.” His fingers tighten on the rim of the bowl and I reach down to wrap my arms around his waist. I let myself melt against him and Peeta holds my weight without complaint, tucking his free hand into my armpit to keep my standing. “I’ll go with you to the train station tomorrow. Angie will open the bakery.”

                “I want to go to bed,” I tell him abruptly.

                “No,” Peeta tells me, his fingers digging into my side. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Stay with me. These’ll be done in 15 minutes and we can decorate them together.”

                “I don’t want to,” I tell him. I feel like a petulant child, but that doesn’t stop me.

                “Well, then you can sit and watch me. It’s too early to go to bed.”

                Peeta tries to save me from myself often enough, but I know that right now, he feels like he’s saving more than just me. He’s saving this chance that we’ve been given, he’s trying to make this a happy revelation instead of heartbreaking one. But I know I’m going to start crying any moment now, and that would ruin everything, so I shift against him. “Fine,” I say, untwining my arms. “I won’t go to bed, but I really have to pee. Can I go pee?”

                Peeta looks at me like he doesn’t trust me, but even he’s above following me to the toilet, so he backs away from the nook and lets me pass.

                I climb the stairs slowly, feel the tears dripping down my face, and don’t bother to wipe them away. When I get to our bedroom, I crawl into bed, pushing the decorative pillows onto the floor. I shove myself under the blankets that Peeta neatly straightened this morning and close my eyes. I don’t wake up until Peeta gets into bed later that night, situating himself around me. I’m no longer in my dress, he must have taken it off at some point, and I feel the soft scratch of his chest hair as he spoons behind me, pulling me into the curve of his body.

                As he kisses the back of my neck, traces swirls on my abdomen, sighs quietly into my hair, Peeta doesn’t sound upset, not really, just resigned.

                The next morning, Peeta wakes early and leaves a message at the bakery for Angie, letting her know she’ll be opening up alone. He shakes me awake and takes me to the shower. We climb in together and I let Peeta wash my hair and skin, keeping my eyes closed most of the time. He lets out little puffs of air that sound like sadness all morning, but otherwise doesn’t react to my despondency. The possible pregnancy may be a surprise, but this Katniss, Peeta is used to. He helps me dress in a top and pants and sits behind me on the bed, brushing out my hair.

                If I’m this lost just thinking I might be pregnant, what will I do when the test tells me that I certainly am?  Peeta moves my hands from my lap to my hair and encourages me to braid it. It’s not fair to make him care for me when I am perfectly able, but I can’t force my fingers to make the familiar motions. Peeta’s sure fingers thread through my hair and after moment, a thick braid drops on my shoulder.

                He makes me eat toast for breakfast, even though I’m sure I won’t be able to keep it down. He sits next to me at the table and eats his oatmeal, popping blueberries in his mouth and occasionally touching me: my shoulder, my face, my hand. He drinks tea and I think about what I will do if I have a baby.

                We walk slowly to the train station and for some reason, it feels like I’m walking towards a prison sentence. I love children. I loved Prim more than anyone else in the world. Marinus is still one of my favorite people, even as he grows older too quickly for my comfort. My fear is not that I won’t love my child. My fear is that I will love them _too much_. And it will be my ruin.

                Peeta and I wait in the sheltered building that’s by the train tracks. He chats with someone from town, likely someone he knows from the bakery, about the trip they’re taking to see their sister in District 9. The train pulls up almost precisely at 9 o’ clock. It takes a few moments for a couple passengers to disembark and the few people waiting to show their tickets and climb on. Peeta and I wait until we see a man with a bundle of mail tucked under his arm. He goes to the main desk to drop off his delivery and then gets back on the train.

                I feel my heart pumping in my throat as Peeta guides me over to the counter. He tells the lady working there my name, and takes the small, brown box from her. My name is written on it in my mother’s neatest handwriting, and there’s a Panem Post stamp in the upper right hand corner. The parcel is small enough that Peeta can tuck it into his back pocket and he takes my hand, guiding my away from the station.

                We arrive home a short while later and I want this to be something solitary. If I have a bad reaction, I don’t want to upset Peeta anymore than I already have. But the package is still in Peeta’s back pocket and he doesn’t give it to me, even once we’ve taken off our shoes.

                “So, what kind of test is it?” he asks. He seems nervous. He blinks a few times and shoves his hands into his pants pockets.

                “I don’t know. Let’s open it.” _I_ want to open it, but I let Peeta dress me this morning. I suppose I owe him this much.

                We walk over to the large window in the front room and Peeta kneels on the bench there, pulls out the package. He rips the brown paper off. Inside of it is a small white box. There’s nothing on the outside to give away what is waiting for us. He flips open one of the tabs on the side of the box and a piece of paper flutters out into his palm. Peeta holds the box out for me to take while he reads the directions.

                Inside is a small sort of stick. It looks a little like the digital thermometers they used on me when I was in District 13. It’s pale yellow and has a small, blank box on one side. There’s a piece of hard paper sticking out of one end.

                Peeta clears his throat. “You’re supposed to pee on this end,” he taps the hard paper that’s sticking out, “and then wait three minutes. A picture shows up here,” he points to the blank box, “that tells you if you are, or aren’t pregnant.”

                “How sure will this test be?” I ask him, clutching the stick in my fist.

                “98% accurate,” he says, waving the instructions back and forth. “That’s what this says.”

                I swallow and look out the window. I count 10 breaths before I'm able to speak again. “Okay, let’s do this.”

                Peeta follows me cautiously upstairs and sits on the bed while I go into the bathroom. I’m not sure whether I should close the door or not, but I know Peeta needs to be a part of this, so I leave it half open, so that he won’t be able to see me on the toilet at least and pee quickly. Once I’ve fastened the button on my pants and washed my hands, I walk back into the bedroom. Peeta is still sitting, his shoulders tense and his hands in his lap, when I set the test down on our dresser. I join him on the bed and rest my head on his upper arm. He instinctively shifts to wrap us together and I let out an unfamiliar sound.

                “No matter what happens,” Peeta says, and I cut him off before he can finish.

                “I love you,” I tell him. I need him to know this now, because I’m sure if the test tells me I’m pregnant, I won’t be able to tell him for a long time.

                After a little while, Peeta clears his throat. “I think it’s been three minutes.”

                I find myself stuck to the bed, my body weighed down by the unseen force of anxiety coursing through my body. “You look at it,” I mutter.

                Peeta leans over and reaches for the test without getting off of the bed. He looks at it for a moment and then looks at the paper instructions. In a single second, I feel him deflate. His shoulders seem to cave forward and his hand stills on my thigh.

                “What’s it say?” I can barely lift my head to look at him.

                Peeta swallows and frowns. “It says that you’re not pregnant,” he tells me, dropping the test into his lap.

                I feel a rush of simultaneous relief, heartache, shame, and guilt. I burrow into Peeta and he crushes my body to his. “It could be wrong,” I tell him, unsure of why I’m saying it. “2% chance.”

                “We’ll see, Katniss.”

                But the next morning, I wake up and there’s blood in my pajama pants. When I tell Peeta, I can tell his reaction is measured, but he leaves the house without telling me to have a good day. He still kisses me goodbye, but the action is short and practiced and I wonder if he’s mad _at me_.

                I spend hours in the woods that day, alternating between attempting to sift through my conflicting emotions and shooting down hapless animals. The entire district will eat well for days with the haul I get. It’s dark before I get home and Peeta is pacing the front room impatiently. His hair is tousled, his eyes are dark, and his lip is visibly red from where he’s been working it. He looks up at me with a flash of anger but his features settle into something a little more affectionate when I close the front door behind myself.

                “Where have you been?” he asks, coming to greet me. He presses his lips to mine before I can even set my bow and arrows down, hands shaking a little on my hips.

                “I got caught up,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

                Peeta steps back and lets me put my things away. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t know if you were leaving, or just…you scared me.” 

                “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” And I am. And then, “Are you mad at me?” The words tumble from my lips, unexpected, like so many other things I’ve been saying these past few days.

                “No,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him into the kitchen. “You just scared me, is all.” I sit down at the table and watch him struggle over deciding what he should do now that we’ve stopped moving.

                “I mean about the baby. The…not baby.” My thoughts don’t seem to be coalescing very well right now, and Peeta offers me a rueful grin at my poor choice of words.

                “It’s not like you did anything. You just…aren’t pregnant. I’m not mad at you,” he shrugs a little and steps behind me to gently massage my shoulders. “I mean, I’m a little sad. But you were so…distraught over just the notion that you might be pregnant. It’s probably for the best,” he says, with a little peck to the top of my head. We’re silent for a little while. I enjoy Peeta’s massage while he breathes steadily over top of me. Finally, he says, “Do you ever think it wouldn’t make you upset? Having a baby?”

                I shrug my shoulders. Could there ever be a time when I felt like Peeta and I would make good parents? Would there ever be a time when I wasn’t terrified of losing those I loved most? Will I ever not be burdened with the sickness that makes me so much like my mother? I don’t know. If that time comes, perhaps. But now is not that time. I look up at Peeta, who peers hopefully down at me. “Maybe,” I say, because that is the best I can do. He gives me a little smile and nods, this is good enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you! To everyone who's been reading this and taking the time to comment, I really appreciate it. :)
> 
> * And for those of you wondering, "Libertas vivo vixi victum apud dignitate" means "Freedom to live in dignity." Or, at least, I hope it does!


	8. Year Twenty-One, Part A

_Year Twenty-One, Part A_

                I am squished into the closet of the guest room, peering out of the slats of the bi-fold doors. I’m sitting on top of something uncomfortable, maybe a hanger, and my knees are pulled up almost to my chest. There’s a three year old boy in my arms, his hands clamped over his mouth, and a five year old girl stands by my feet, also staring out of the door. Willow looks at me and frowns at her brother, who’s trying his three-year-old best not to giggle too loudly. I can’t help but grin at the exasperated look on my daughter’s face.

                “If he keeps making noise like that, Papa’s going to find us, immediately,” she complains. It’s hard not to smile when my daughter is so serious, but I try to keep a straight face.

                “You decided to hide with us,” I tell her, dragging a hand through Rye’s golden curls. “You have to deal with the consequences.” Rye fails to stifle another giggle, and I hear Peeta’s footsteps pick up speed as he crosses the hall.

                “I’m going to find you!” he says, his voice too light to spark any fear in our children.

                Willow opens her mouth to say something, but then Peeta’s shadow appears in the doorway of the guest room. She clamps her mouth shut and tries to control her breathing. Like everything else in her life, my daughter takes our games of hide and seek very seriously. Rye can’t help but clap when he hears the distinct two tone steps that announce his father’s arrival.

                “Aha!” Peeta shouts. He throws the closet door open and his triumphant smile widens when he sees his entire family in the closet together. “Well, well, well. What do we have here? A whole pile of Mellarks, just waiting to be found.” He scoops a scowling Willow into his arms even though she stiffens as he picks her up.

                “It’s not fair!” she says, flopping back in his grip and turning into deadweight. “Mom took the closet and Rye gave us away. Who’s going to be it now?”

                Peeta chuckles and sets Willow down, reaching out to help me up. “I think it’s actually time for lunch, so we’ll call this one a draw.”

                The answer seems to appease our daughter enough, because she turns and darts from the room, and I can hear her descending the stairs hastily. Peeta pokes Rye’s nose and elicits another excited giggle from the boy. “You gave your sister and your mom away in one fell swoop. Team testosterone!” He holds his hand up for a high five and Rye returns it weakly.

                “I am so much better at this game when it’s just me hiding,” I say to Peeta, following him into the kitchen.

                “I feel like Rye’s presence just balances out your skills as a hunter,” Peeta replies, opening the refrigerator. “Let’s see here, what should we have for lunch?” He turns to look at the table where Willow waits impatiently while I strap Rye into his booster chair. “Do you want moldy bread?” Willow makes a face at her father. She’s still frustrated about losing hide and seek, but there’s a twitch in the corner of her mouth. “I think your mother just got a unicorn the other day,” he offers, with a sort of half shrug.

                “Papa,” Willow moans, dropping her head to the table. “Unicorns aren’t real. That’s absolutely impossible.” Peeta grins at me over her head and I can’t help but return his smirk. Through their infancy and into their adolescence, Peeta has seamlessly transitioned with our children. I can’t imagine a better father for our light hearted son and our serious daughter. It was difficult, when he stayed by my side during the nightmare riddled pregnancy and long labors, to imagine I could love him more. But as he concedes the non-existence of unicorns, I find my heart swelling just a little bit more.

                “How about some turkey sandwiches, then?”

                “Turkeys are real,” Willow confirms, nodding her head. “That’s okay.”

                I grab a few apples and slice them up. Small pieces for Willow, smaller pieces for Rye, and give them to our children while Peeta makes sandwiches. Six years ago, I was petrified at the idea of raising a single child. Here I stand, in front of _two_ children, who I helped to make, and watch their chubby fingers stuff apple into their mouths. Well, Rye’s chubby fingers do. Willow is a little daintier about eating.

                I lean back against the counter and take a breath, a moment to watch my family. This experience always seemed to be just out of my reach, brushing the tips of my outstretched fingers, but now I’m here and so grateful that I took the leap. Peeta brushes a light kiss across my lips as he delivers plates of food to our children, sitting next to Rye at the table so that he can help him with the apparently unmanageable bread. I should be heading out into the woods – Peeta only takes Sundays off, and other than the few hours that he will watch the children at the bakery every other day, these are the only opportunities I have to hunt. But I find myself longing to stay more than I long to go most Sundays. I want to soak up these moments that are good. Peeta looks at me from under his blond eyelashes and I swallow something thick.

                “I should get going,” I tell them, pushing away from the counter. I grab the sandwich on Peeta’s plate and take a large bite, earning a loud giggle from my son. Peeta rolls his eyes at me and nods.

                “We’re going over to visit Thom’s girls for a bit,” he says, wiping a blob of sauce off of Rye’s cheek. “But we should be here when you get back.”

                I drop a kiss to each of my children’s foreheads (Willow sort of groans) and peck Peeta’s lips before darting out of the kitchen. My bow and arrows feel loose around my chest as I situate them. Willow was just as serious as an infant as she is now. Even as a new born, she was silent when happy and very rarely fussy. She would study me so intently with Peeta’s bright blue eyes that I found it unnerving at times. But because of her solemn behavior, she was easy to take into the woods. I fashioned a sling that wrapped around my torso, keeping her out of the path of the vibrating bow string and the fletched ends of arrows. She would slumber against my chest while I tracked and took down my prey. If ever she fussed, it was as simple as lifting my shirt for her – she latched on with no trouble from day one, and would busy herself nursing while I continued to hunt.

                When I first told Peeta how strange it felt to travel through the woods, perching on rocks and taking down prey, with my shirt bunch around my armpits, he sort of smiled. He said something about me being his Amazon wife, but the reference soared over my head. Willow remained this easy to hunt with until she was almost two – weaned from the breast and bulkier to carry, she became inquisitive about the world around her. Toddlers are too noisy to take into the woods, and so our bakery visits and Sunday hunting schedule was instituted.

                I was lucky that Willow came first, because Rye was a fussy, colicky baby who never would have allowed me to hunt with him swaddled against my chest. I like to think that, somewhere, somehow, Prim was looking out for me when I was sent the easy baby first.

                I trace the collar of my shirt as I duck under a tree branch and make my way to check my snare line. It’s been almost four years since the comfortable warmth of my daughter rested against my chest during my sojourns into the wilderness, but I think I will always miss her warm baby breath on my collar bone, her tiny fingers poking me through the fabric of my shirt, her patchy brown hair tickling my arm. There’s only one rabbit caught in my snare – I will never be able to match Gale’s skill or knowledge, and I glare at the five other empty snares as I toss the one idiot rabbit into my bag. I have about four or five hours of decent light left to hunt, and I decide to climb up a tree and scan the area.

                I find a decent tree to perch in, tall and thick trunked most of the way up, with plenty of sturdy branches to hold my weight. I scuttle up quickly, shuffling from left to right as I go up. I must be about 30 feet in the air when I get to the top, staring out over the other tree tops. I can’t see much on the ground so I lower myself to beneath the tree line and begin scanning the forest ground.

                I watch the wildlife pick about on the ground for around an hour, trying to choose what I will take home to feed my family tonight. It’s low when I first hear the sound, but I tip my head to listen closer and it’s very clear. The growl and hiss of an angry bobcat. I shift my gaze to the base of the tree and directly below me, circling the tree slowly, is an angry cat. The fur on its back raises in an angry ridge and suddenly it scuttles back, clawing at the bark of the tree, and hissing at me. Clearly I’ve wandered into this cat’s territory. I don’t want to shoot it – bobcats aren’t particularly delicious and most of their meat is too sinewy to eat. I’m not above killing to survive, but I won’t waste a life unless it’s necessary. I still have a few hours of light left, so I decide to see if I can just out wait the creature.

                As the sun lowers in the sky, the cat beneath me only seems to grow more anxious. Its calls become louder and it shreds the bark of the tree more ferociously than before. The little hops and hisses tell me that it’s trying to reach the intruder huddled in the crook of a tree branch and I realize, as I glance at the darkening horizon, that tonight we will have rabbit and bobcat to eat. The only way I will get home to my family is by removing this angry animal from my path. It’s possible that the cat circling me is a mother, trying to protect her young, and I swallow the sense of guilt that I may be killing her kittens as well. I pull out an arrow and knock it and aim in a swift motion. I release before my target has time to realize what’s happening. I take the cat out in mid mewl and shuffle down the tree.

                It’s a skinny thing, likely little to no usable meat on its bones. I’m already later leaving the wilderness than I should be – Peeta will probably be fretting about me by the time I come home. I forgo skinning and gutting the animals in the woods like I usually do, I will just have to do it in the backyard, and shove the light cat in my game bag. I’m relieved to see it’s a male and I haven’t robbed anyone of their mother.

                It’s already dark when I begin to make my way through town, the few street lamps that we’ve had installed glow brightly in the darkness, lighting my path with wide circles of yellow light. I hasten home, not wanting my family to be any more worried than they already probably are. Greasy Sae’s granddaughter waves a “Hello” to me from the porch of her caretaker’s house. I wave back and hustle past – I like her, but she seems to want to talk more now that her grandmother has passed away and I don’t have time to stop for a chat tonight.

                When I get home, I’m not surprised to find my family in the front room. Rye is on the floor, chewing and slobbering on a wooden boat that was a gift from Annie, while Willow and Peeta sit in tense silence on the couch.

                “Hi!” I huff, slightly winded from jogging the last half mile. It’s later than I thought, and I feel a pang of guilt for keeping the children from eating on time.

                “Where were you?” Peeta asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

                Willow stares at me with his penetrating eyes and I feel my heart stutter in my chest. No matter how much her features mirror mine, Peeta’s eyes will always shine the brightest on her small face. Rye lightens the mood when he drops his boat and hurries over to me, wrapping his arms around my leg and kissing the knees of my trousers. “Mommy’s home!” he shouts.

                I reach down to card my fingers through his tuft of hair and set my gear down on the floor. I scoop the three year old up and settle onto the couch with the rest of my family. “Sorry I’m late, I was treed by a territorial bobcat. I tried to wait it out, but,” I shrug my shoulders. Peeta looks a little shocked, but Willow just rolls her eyes at me.

                “Mom, you have got to pay more attention to your surroundings.”

                I can’t help a little giggle at my daughter’s chastising. “Of course, I promise I’ll do better next time.” Rye reaches up and sticks a finger in my nostril. I gently pry his finger away from my face and wipe it on my shirt before setting him down. “Did you eat already?”

                Peeta nods. “We were just waiting for you to go to bed.”

                “Well, it doesn’t look like either of them have had a bath yet,” I say.

                “We don’t need one,” Willow insists. Usually such a reasonable girl, this is her one pitfall. Baths are the enemy. I wonder if she’s spent too much time talking to Johanna on the telephone.

                “Yes,” I say. “You do. You both do. I bet you spent all afternoon playing outside with Sadie and Becky. Didn’t you?” My daughter looks away, caught and mollified. So Peeta takes the children up to bathe them while I slip out back to clean my kills. I was right about the bobcat – most of it is useless. I toss the unusable portions into the trees behind our house, in case there’s a stray animal wandering around. Buttercup died a long time ago, but I still like to think there’s a creature out there who’s taken up the mantel of devouring the entrails I leave.

                By the time I wrap and store the meat in the ice box, Peeta has the children bathed and dressed in their pyjamas. The trio is in the bathroom, Willow watching herself in the mirror as she brushes her teeth, and Peeta struggling to extract Rye’s toothbrush from between his clamped baby teeth.

                I change my shirt quickly – my children don’t startle at the sight of blood, but I don’t want to get them dirty after Peeta went through the task of cleaning them – and join them. I help Peeta free Rye’s toothbrush and commend Willow on her excellent dental habits. It’s time to tuck them into bed and I see the sadness in Peeta’s eyes. It’s rare that he gets so much time with them, just to himself, and he’s always sorry to see Sundays end. He takes Rye and I take Willow. Willow is in Prim’s old room and still, five years since Peeta painted the starburst mural on the walls, my throat clenches when I walk into the unfamiliar but haunting room. I walk over to close her window while she tucks herself under the quilt my mother made for her.

                “You could leave it open,” she says, her voice muffled as she turns to rest her head on her pillow.

                “It’s cold out,” I say.

                “It is not.”

                “Cold enough that you shouldn’t have your window open.” I won’t win this argument. I never do.

                “Please, mom,” she says, her exasperation obvious.

                I lift the window and let the sill rest open about two fingers wide before walking back to her bed. “That’s it, that’s all you get.” She looks at me intently – there is certainly a snarky remark on the tip of her tongue, but she bites her lips. “I love you,” I tell her, brushing her dark curls away from her forehead so that I can kiss her warm skin. “I love you so much. I was thinking about hunting with you, today when I was leaving. You won’t remember it, but I used to take me with you when you were a baby. You were a perfect partner. ”

                “I know,” Willow says, leaning into my touch and softening. “Papa talks about it sometimes.”

                “To you?”

                Willow shrugs her shoulders.

                “Do you want me to read to you?” I ask. Willow shakes her head and lets her eyes flutter shut as she yawns.

                “I’m sleepy,” she says. It’s only at these moments, when she’s tired and drifting, or when she’s just waking, that Willow actually seems her age. Her voice raises a little in pitch and softens to a murmur, she reaches up to rub her eyes with a fist and curls onto her side to pet the hair on my arm. “Just tell me a story.”

                “What about, baby?” She usually hates it when I use this term of endearment, but I can get away with it when she’s comfortable in her bed.

                “Auntie Prim,” she says, her voice muffled with encroaching sleep.

                I swallow hard. Even after all these years, Prim makes my heart clench. But the pain is more distant now, and it’s easier to remember the days when she laughed and danced, like the time when I brought Lady home for her. The children love to look at her picture in the memory book, trace the lines of Peeta’s art, ask me questions about her. Peeta gets to tell them stories about his silly brother (Rye’s namesake) and his loving father, and I have this. _Auntie Prim._ “What story would you like me to tell you?” Maybe the one about when she danced with me at Annie and Finnick’s wedding, or about how she saved Buttercup from my evil grasp.

                “Something new,” Willow says, her voice drooping at the end. Her eyes are fully closed now and her small hand has stilled on my arm. I reach over and begin to scratch her small back in slow, practiced motions.

                I have to wrack my brain to think of a nice story my children haven’t heard about Prim yet. They don’t know much about the last few days of her life, or the darkness that enshrouded most of her life. One day, they will, but for now, they will see her only as the joyful, beautiful, sweet girl that I loved. “Have I ever told you about when Prim and I used to make strawberry juice?” Willow shakes her head slightly and I can tell she’s already half way between the waking world and dreams.

                So I begin talking, my words gentle and soft. I tell her about how I took Prim into the woods with me on a warm, summer evening. She wanted me to teach her how to hunt, but she flinched at the first arrow I knocked. I decided instead, to show her where she could find fruit and herbs. We discovered a full, untouched strawberry flat. We spent almost an hour on our hands and knees plucking the ripe fruit from the ground. We hadn’t brought any pails with us, so Prim and I trotted back home, carrying the red berries in our shirts. When we got home, my mother was so angry at us for staining the fabric of our clothes, but she couldn’t hide her joy at our haul of fruit. Half of the berries went into a pail for trading and other half were crushed and measured out into a pitcher. Juice to drink, pulp for jam. Prim’s hands were pink for days, afterwards.

                At some point during my story, Peeta comes into the room, as quiet as he can be. Willow doesn’t start at the sound or when he settles onto the other side of the bed, taking over as back scratcher. By the time I finish my tale, with Prim sharing some of the strawberry juice with Buttercup despite my outrage, Willow is fast asleep, her small breaths steady against my leg. Peeta and I take turns kissing her cheek and creep out of the room.

                “Is Rye asleep?” I whisper, closing her door almost all of the way.

                “Almost,” Peeta says, heading into our room. “He wanted to wait for you.”

                My little boy is sitting up in his cot, tired eyes drooping in the low light of his lamp. His fingers are curled around the fabric edge, reaching for me as soon as he sees my silhouette in his doorway. “Mama,” he coos, his voice thick with the sleep he’s trying to stave off.

                “Hey, peanut,” I respond, whispering in the small space of his room. This room used to be the study, but when I got pregnant, Peeta and Thom erected a wall, splitting it almost down the middle. The nursery side is bigger, since Peeta does a lot of his painting outdoors, anyways. I cup one hand behind Rye’s head, and his eyes flutter shut as I guide him back to lie down on the mattress. “Were you waiting for mama?” I ask him, and he hums his assent.

                “I love you, you know.” Rye lifts his fist to his mouth and pops his thumb past his lips. I hate this habit of his, but can’t blame him for seeking comfort at night. I straighten his pyjamas and give him a kiss before leaving, his door a little more open than Willow’s.

                Peeta is sitting on the edge of our bed, in his underpants, detaching his prosthetic when I come in. I climb up onto the mattress, kneeling behind him so that my thighs encase his hips. I cross my arms over his chest and rest my chin on his shoulder. Even though he’s not done with his task, he stops for a moment and raises a hand to rest it over top of mine, leans his head back and to the side so that he can kiss me.

                “Did you have a good Sunday?” I ask, watching dreamily as he returns to the buckle on his thigh.

                “Would have been better if my wife didn’t get stuck in the woods with a feral cat,” he says. His voice is too soft for his words to carry any bite, but I tighten my arms none-the-less. “They’re growing up so fast,” he says, after a moment. He drops his prosthesis to the floor and turns, putting his hands under my shirt. His fingers are warm against my abdomen and he drags them up to take my shirt off. When he pauses to cup my breast, I remove my shirt the rest of the way and tilt back so that he can lean over me.

                “Too fast,” I say, while Peeta uses his free hand to undo the buttons on my trousers.

                I lift my hips to help him remove the pants, which are a little tighter now, after two children. Peeta ends up having to use both hands to wiggle them off of my hips and ends with his chin near my belly button. He dips to kiss the concave of my stomach, burn scars and stretch marks twisting into a strange map of my past under his lips.

                “Do you ever think about having another one?” he asks, slipping his hand into the back of my underpants. He drags his nails over my sensitive skin and I press down into the friction. Peeta dips his head once more to nuzzle the downy hair below my navel. I bring a leg up to brush his ribs with my toes.

                “Do you?” I ask, because I’m unsure of my answer. Sure, there are times when I long to hold a warm baby in my arms once more, to feel their sweet breath ghost across my face. But I wonder if Peeta would be able to handle three children in the bakery at a time, and Haymitch is old enough that he won’t be much help for much longer. Maybe if he hadn’t been drinking so heavily for the last few decades. And even though my second pregnancy was easier, I still never enjoyed being pregnant. First, there’s nausea, and then mood swings. Then, I’m too sore to make love to my husband and too large to hunt. It’s an unpleasant nine months where my body doesn’t feel like mine, and even though I adore my children, I hate giving myself up like that.

                “Maybe…”he trails off, slithering up my body. Even though we’re both exhausted from the long week, the long day, I can feel his erection pressing into my pelvis as he kisses at the side of my jaw. “Maybe we can just stop being so careful and see what happens?”

                I smile and run my fingertips along Peeta’s hairline and the nape of his neck. His drops a small kiss to the side of my mouth and sits back a little to look at me. “What do you think?”

                I shrug my shoulders and watch his expression. “I don’t _not_ want another baby,” I tell him, and watch his brow furrow for a moment, as he thinks about my convoluted answer.

                “So you’d be okay with…not using condoms?” he asks, his words coming out faster than I think he planned.

                “I think so.” I nod and can’t help my grin at his reaction. Peeta’s smiling through his yawn and shakes his head lightly. I don’t bother holding the chuckle back. “But not tonight,” I tell him, even as his persistent arousal presses against me. “Too tired.” Peeta doesn’t argue, simply lets out a little groan and twists to turn off the light. When he turns back, I’ve rolled over onto my stomach. Peeta lies himself down on my back, one hand resting on the curve of my backside, the other stroking through my hair with continually slower motions.

* * *

 

                It’s not like we have sex often, what with Willow and Rye being light sleepers and my nightmares and the long days at the bakery and late nights in the kitchen. Peeta and I are lucky when we are able to undress before falling into bed, let alone work up the energy to make love. I’ve tried to instigate a few times, only to find him snoring by the time I’m ready for action. So, it’s no surprise that months pass and there’s no sign of my being pregnant. It’s not like we’re trying, or anything, but Peeta watches me carefully every day. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but if it’s a sign of an impending baby, he won’t be seeing it.

                One Friday evening, Peeta comes home from the bakery with a huge grin splitting his face. I’m in the kitchen with Willow, where she’s peeling potatoes for the stew we’re going to make. Rye is sitting in his booster seat, playing with paint at the table and getting it all over Peeta’s old shirt, which I’ve draped over him like a smock. My husband doesn’t even take the time to remove his shoes when he comes in, just hustles into the kitchen and clears his throat to get our attention. We all turn to look at him at once.

                “How would you kids like to spend a whole four days with Nana?” he asks. My eyes widen at the offer. My mother has come to visit twice a year since Willow’s birth, and the children always look forward to Nana’s visits, but they have _never_ spent the night outside of my home. How could Peeta ask them this without talking to me about it first? At three and five, I’m not at all ready to send them away to another district. I swallow past the dry anger in my throat and cock my head. Rye is already clapping excitedly but Willow is studying my reaction.

                “Peeta, do you think that’s a good idea?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. “They haven’t even been to District 2, yet.” I’m sure my mother is healthy enough to watch the kids for a few of days, but with them being so far away, what if something went wrong? The more I think about this, the more my blood seems to boil and the angrier I am at Peeta. It’s so unlike him to be this thoughtless.

                “No,” he says, his smile faltering only for a second. “No, no. I’m sorry. You guys wouldn’t be going to Nana’s house, she’d come here!” He smiles a little wider and looks at me with imploring eyes. “Mama and I have to leave District 12 for a little while, so Nana is going to come and stay with you. Okay?”

                Willow looks at me, takes in my softening features, the up-quirk of my eyebrow and feels like she can finally be excited about this announcement of her father’s. “Yay!” She jumps down from her stool and runs over to Peeta, wrapping her arms around his thighs. “Thank you Papa!”

                I take the peeler from Willow and sit her at the table with Rye. “Help your brother paint for a little bit, okay?” She looks at me, irritated, but does as I say. “We’ll be right back and you and I will finish up.”

                I pull Peeta into the front room where he shifts awkwardly under my gaze. In this 38 year old man, I can still the 16 year old boy who loved me without pause, whose heart I broke unintentionally. I push away the lingering feeling of guilt that brushes against my heart any time he makes that face and cross my arms. “What exactly is going on here that you thought you should ask our children before you talked to me?”

                At least he has the sense to look contrite. Peeta scratches the back of his neck and grins sheepishly at me. “I wasn’t…thinking,” he mumbles. “I was just really excited.” I jerk my chin forward, encouraging him to explain further. “Well, it’s been five years since my last fitting, and the hospital called the other day to tell me I should go back to the Capitol to get a new prosthetic sized and made.” The process of getting a new prosthetic made usually takes about four days, but I’ve never gone with Peeta before. The last time he went, I was seven months pregnant with Willow and terrified of travelling and giving birth somewhere else. It was a harrowing three nights, lying pregnant in bed without Peeta to keep the nightmares at bay. “I thought you could come with me; we could…get away for a little bit.”

                When I frown at him, Peeta steps closer to me and rubs one of my arms, trying to convince me to uncross them. “It’s been so long since we’ve had any time to ourselves, really,” he says, smiling when I let my arms fall. “I just thought it would be a nice surprise for everybody. And your mom was so excited. I didn’t think Haymitch would be up to an entire four days.” At 61 years old, Haymitch is doing surprisingly well for himself. He still drinks, albeit less than he used to, and has somehow managed not to kill himself yet, but I wouldn’t trust him to watch my children unsupervised for four days in a row. Peeta was right to call my mother, but he was wrong not to tell me.

                Still, the idea of four days alone with my husband, who I haven’t really had the chance to relax with in at least five years, is enough to bring a smirk to my lips. It’s hard to stay mad at him with his boyish smile in my line of sight. “Fine,” I relent, squeezing his biceps. “It was a good idea.” Peeta lets out a huff of breath I hadn’t known he was holding. “Just, next time, tell me first, okay?”

                Peeta nods and guides me back into the kitchen. Willow looks up from where she’s trying to keep her brother from painting her dress blue. “Is Nana still coming?” she sounds a little sad, like I’m the one who always ruins her fun.

                “Yes!” I tell her. Rye whips his hand up excitedly and splatters his sister’s face with sky blue paint.

* * *

 

                Even though I’m thrilled to be in this hotel room, alone with Peeta, there’s a strange sort of scratching sadness behind my ribcage. Tonight is going to be the first night in five years that I fall asleep with kissing my children. If I wake in the darkness, I won’t be able to run down the hall and check to see if their small chests are rising and falling with steady breaths. I know that my children are safe at home under the watchful eye of my mother, but my heart still clenches when I think too much about my absence from my home.

                I’m sitting on the sofa and clicking through different channels on the television while Peeta showers. He had to get his left leg plaster casted today for the prosthetic. Last time he came here, the hospital staff used a 3D imager of some sort to size Peeta’s prosthetic – he said they took dozens of photos and used a computer to piece it together – but it didn’t seem to fit as well, so this year he’s asked them to do it the “old fashioned” way. However, it usually takes him a while to wash off the small flecks of plaster that escape the plastic stocking they put on him. I listen to the water running in the bathroom and flip through channels, not paying any attention to what’s on. I’m fighting the urge to call my house – I talked to the children about two hours ago when my mother was putting them to bed. She’s likely asleep too, and calling would do nothing but disrupt my family’s sleep.

                I twist my hands in my lap and yawn. The journey to the Capitol is faster now than ever before, but riding on the train always makes me exhausted for some reason. While Peeta was in the hospital, I took a hired vehicle to the apartment building where Effie lives. She may be aging, but Effie was still just as done up as I’ve ever seen her. You would never know she was a day over 30, with her bright orange hair and surgery plump skin. I arranged for a dinner date with her and then went back to the hotel and napped until Peeta came back. He woke me to ask if I wanted to shower with him, but I declined and now I find myself yawning on the couch. Having children makes me tired even when they aren’t around.

                The water in the bathroom stops and I can hear Peeta struggling to get out of the strange shower. With no tub ledge to balance on, these Capitol showers often frustrate him more than he’d like to admit.

                “Katniss?” he calls through the cracked door. “Wanna come give me a hand?”

                Peeta’s not above asking for help when he needs it, but rarely does he ask me for help balancing. I jump off the couch and rush to the bathroom. He’s still in the shower, leaning against the tiled wall, shifting his foot to keep from sliding on the slippery floor. His skin is still damp, slow to dry in the steamy space. Peeta offers me a half grin when I come in and sort of shrugs his shoulders. The towels are across the bathroom and the modern look this hotel went for offers Peeta no counter space to lean on to get to them. I snag one and take it to him, drop it in his outstretched hand.

                “What do you want to do tonight?” He towels off his left leg first so that he’ll be able to walk once more. “Dinner?”

                “I set up a date with Effie for dinner tomorrow night,” I say. I’m already wearing pajamas, but maybe Peeta hasn’t noticed. “I’m a little tired. Do you want to stay in?”

                “Order room service?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

                “Yes,” I say, sighing gratefully. One dinner outing per Capitol trip is enough for me. Since the revolution, not much has changed here. While districts no longer support the Capitol to their detriment, the people looking to spend more for a lavish lifestyle still flock to the garish streets here. I find my visits here less taxing now than in the past, but am still only able to stomach so many candy colored buildings in one day.

                Peeta finishes drying himself off and wraps the towel around his waist, leading me back into our hotel room. He sets himself on the couch and picks up the room service menu, flicking through it. I settle next to him, pressing into his side and watch him scroll through our options.

                “What do you want?”

                My shirt clings to still damp skin and he smells like soap. I close my eyes for a moment. “I don’t care,” I tell him, adjusting his arm so that it drapes over my shoulders. “You choose. Whatever you want.”

                Peeta has to twist a little awkwardly to continue tapping the menu screen with his arm around me, but he doesn’t say anything. “They have lobster, you liked that last time we had it at Annie’s.” I nod against him and try not to yawn. Peeta’s skin is warm and soft from the shower, the rough terry fabric of the towel rubs against my bare knees where they’re pressed to his thigh. Even though my eyes are still closed, I can tell Peeta’s stopped looking for something to eat when the small jerking motions of his arm stop. He taps the screen audibly and then leans forward to set the menu down. “Lobster it is.”

                I move with him, my eyes barely fluttering open when he leans back against the sofa and starts twisting my braid in his fingers. “Hey, are you falling asleep?” he asks, after a few comfortable moments.

                “Just a little.” I intend to whisper, but it comes out more as a garbled mumble.

                “Well, wake up.” His voice is low, but he jostles me a little to keep me from slumbering against him. “I only get three nights with you,” he says, “We’ve got to make them count.”

                “I just want to take a nap before dinner gets here.” I mean it, but after Peeta helps me shuffle to bed, I don’t wake up until the next morning.

                Peeta is wrapped around me under the lush covers of our bed, his foot moving up and down my calf slowly. His fingers trace patterns up and down my torso, starting just under my chin and reversing course once he taps the bone of my hip. “Good morning.” He whispers, in case I’m not as awake as he might think.

                I roll over slowly to avoid hurting the arm he has tucked beneath me. “Sorry I fell asleep,” I apologize, and I mean it. I must have been more exhausted than I thought.

                Peeta shrugs his shoulders and grins devilishly at me. “Morning sex?”

                “Mmmm.” I agree, and he’s already pushing his hands under my shirt, palms warm and flat against my back.

                “I have a secret to tell you,” he says, fingers peeking out from under the collar of my shirt to tickle my neck.

                “What?” I wrap my arms around him and kiss the solid muscle of his shoulder.

                “I ate your dinner last night.”

                I can’t help but chuckle. My laugh is cut off when Peeta shifts his leg and presses his thigh between my legs, against me. I shift my hips and drive down into the pressure, let out a quiet sigh of pleasure.

                “You didn’t want to get up, I asked you,” he says, like it even matters, while he shifts his hands to my front. Peeta’s fingers are sure as they dance over my breasts, tweaking with familiar dexterity so that my nipples peak under his palms. The fabric of my sleep shirt rustles quietly as he continues his ministrations. “And it felt like a waste to just leave it out, so I ate your dinner and my dinner.”

                I don’t care how much he ate last night. I let out a strangled sort of grunt when Peeta lifts his leg quickly between mine, applying a quick burst of pressure. My underpants are in my way and I grip his wrist, directing his hand between my legs, under the elastic band and fabric that’s separating me from him.

                Peeta laughs a little, not like he’s laughing at me, just a happy sound in the pink light of the sunrise. He adjusts his leg so that he can remove my underwear and then brings his hand back up to trace the soft skin at the apex of my thighs. “It was really good.” His thumb traces over my wet center and he grins triumphantly when I groan and shift my hips.

                “What?” I ask him, not paying attention to his words, but delighting in the two fingers he presses into me.

                “The lobster. It was delicious. I think you would have liked it.”

                I trail my hand down his bare abdomen and grip his erection lightly. I don’t want to hurt him, but I do want him to stop teasing. “Peeta,” I urge at his grunt. “Shut the fuck up about the lobster.”

                I can’t help but grin at his wide eyes and shocked expression. I’m sure that my husband can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard me say fuck. He does as he’s told, clamping his mouth shut and rolling onto his back. While I slide to sit on top of him, his hands skitter over my thighs and rear, fingertips hot pressure points against my skin. It’s been too long since we’ve been able to do this without worrying about a child knocking on the door. It’s been so long since we’ve both been really well rested, and completely present for any sort of sexual congress. So it’s not a surprise when Peeta crushes his eyes closed and grips my thighs as I settle on top of him.

                I let out a grunt of pleasure to feel him inside of me. I can’t remember the last time this happened, sitting on my husband in the sunlight, one of his hands between my legs, his other cupping my breast, his tongue between his lips as he tries not to finish too quickly. The last time we had sex was two weeks ago and I was only half awake, lying on my side. It wasn’t un-pleasurable, but it certainly wasn’t this.

                Peeta’s hair looks dusky orange against the cream colored pillow beneath his head and I tip forward to kiss his hairline. He moans at the shift and lifts his right leg so that his thigh creates a sort of seat for me to settle back on. His hand between my leg speeds up a bit, gets more erratic. I tip back, curl my hips and drive down onto him. The warm, wet sensation in my stomach starts to twist. Peeta’s hand leaves my breast and he pushes two fingers into my mouth. I bite down lightly, and he pulls his fingers out, moves to grip my waist.

                “Not gonna last much longer,” he tells me, jerking his hips up. His right leg falls and I’m jostled with the loss of support. I put both hands on Peeta’s chest so that I have more leverage. His hand between my legs becomes all but useless as he gets lost in the feeling of my thighs on either side of him.

                “Me neither,” I promise.

                Peeta’s hands move to grip me on either side, hard enough to redden the skin beneath his fingers. I put one hand on the mattress so that I can meet him on the diagonal, his body off kilter because he can only lift his right side high enough to find the pressure he seeks. “Katniss,” he breathes, squeezing my hips even harder.

                I don’t say anything, reach my free hand between my legs as I feel his muscles contract.

                “Katniss.”

                Peeta’s mouth opens and closes, his head presses back into the pillow, his chest heaves. I know what’s happening right now and I busy my fingers between my legs, wanting to follow quickly. Peeta’s hands drop to my sides and he pets the skin on my calves, chest still rising and lowering sporadically.

                I duck my head and my shoulders hunch forward as I feel my own leg muscles contract with spasms. Peeta’s hands tuck under my thighs so that he can half lift me off of him. He slips out of me and I drop back onto his lap, lost in my own release while he smooths his hands over my sweaty skin. I feel the familiar crashing sensation as I come down from the high and let myself fall against his chest. As my heart hammers, I can feel Peeta’s heartbeat slowing to something more regular.

                Peeta plays with my hair, arms sliding up and down my back and I stretch out on top of him, legs tangling together, wet abdomens pressed against each other. I turn my head to the side and look at the little digital clock on the night stand. “I think that took us about three minutes.”

                Beneath me, he shifts and lets out a contented chuckle. “I think that’s a record,” he says, toes scratching over my own. “At least for the last decade.”

                I lift myself up to kiss him and then drop back to rest against his skin, feel him warm and present beneath me, feel a little bit like I might cry for some reason.

                “You love me,” I ask him, my voice quiet and high in the lightening hotel room. “Real, or not real?”

                “Real,” he whispers, lacing the fingers of our hands together. He waits a beat and then I feel him smile against me. “And the lobster _was_ really good.”

                I smack Peeta with my free hand.


	9. Year Twenty-One, Part B

_Yeah Twenty-One, Part B_

                The second and third day in the Capitol are spent in and out of bed. Rarely do we leave our hotel room: this place offers Peeta and me nothing that we long to see more than one another. On the fourth day, Peeta’s prosthetic has been finished and he has to go to the hospital to try it on before we leave. I offer to go with him, but he declines and tells me to take in the sights. Unable to stay in the confines of the hotel room any longer, I do as I’m told.

                The hotel has a massive pool, filled with clear blue water that has an acrid smell. I wrinkle my nose when I walk into the enclosed space and turn away quickly. If I swim, it will not be a pool full of chemicals. I take a risk and walk a few blocks in every direction around our hotel. I take a pamphlet from the front desk that has the address of our hotel on it, just in case I get lost. The first few shops I walk into offer me little in the way of entertainment: wigs, garish clothing, furniture that reminds me of the tribute center. But the sixth door I push open swings into a small place that smells comfortingly familiar. The sign on the front is a hand painted cinnamon bun and the inside smells like my home on Sunday mornings, like Peeta’s bakery whenever I go to visit. I stop in the doorway to inhale the sweet, buttery scent of the bakery and then am pushed in by the person behind me.

                The shop seems to be a bakery/meeting place. People sit at tables, chatting with one another, sipping out of large mugs. The smell of coffee combats with the smell of baked goods once the door jingles shut behind me. I decide to buy a large sticky bun which I can snack on while I wander. The girl at the counter seems frazzled, nothing like Peeta’s gentle, sweet customer service at his short counter. She uses tongs to pick up my sticky bun and slides it into a small, crinkly, brown paper bag. While I take out my coins to pay her, she rolls down the top of the bag and thrusts it into my hand as I drop the coins into hers. “Have a nice day,” she says, as I leave, but she doesn’t sound like she means it. I shrug off the feeling that _everything_ about this place is a lie.

                The sticky bun is sweet, and the pastry crumbles in my mouth. It’s good, but it’s not _Peeta_ good. People look at me strangely as I walk down the sidewalk, pulling pieces of the bun out of the bag. It takes me some time to eat the sticky bun, small flakes glued to my fingers by the syrupy glaze. Once I’ve finished it, I crumple the bag in my fist and, without a garbage receptacle in sight, shove it into my pocket. I’ve stopped in front of some sort of green space, grass and trees infiltrating the city landscape of the Capitol. It’s not very large, maybe the size of the Hob before it was burnt down. There are dark brown benches dotting the grass and I find myself drawn to one, sitting on the slatted surface and taking a deep breath.

                There are some unfamiliar birds strutting around in front of me, their heads bobbing with every step they take. I shouldn’t be surprised at their lack of fear, everything in the Capitol seems to be protected from what the districts have suffered, even the pudgy looking wildlife. I frown at them while they let out low sort of trilling sounds and bob around me, seemingly waiting for something. Eventually I tire of the perfectly pruned bushes around me, the clearly manmade landscape, the indifferent and needy birds. I shove myself off of the bench hastily and the grey birds scatter in flight – maybe I overestimated their security.

                I haven’t managed to kill much time on my own, and I know that Peeta will be in the hospital for at least another few hours. I find myself missing him as I meander along the walkways and avoid staring at anything, or anyone, for too long. My journeys in the Capitol have always occurred at times when I have his presence – his comfort and warmth – to sustain me. I don’t need him with me every second of every day, but I do find myself longing for him as I pass by a man who’s disciplining an ill behaved child. I could return to the hotel and call my mother, check in on the children, but I decide to wave down a vehicle for hire and ask the driver to take me to the hospital.

                It’s a looming building, taller than all of the others surrounding it, with glass walls that are so opaque you can’t see through them. It looks foreboding, to say the least, with its austere entrance of dark marble and metal statues. I pay my driver and watch the vehicle depart before taking a deep breath and forcing myself to go inside. The front entrance consists of a small, spinning door that I step through cautiously. The inside is just as imposing as the outside suggests, more dark marble, cold steel, and a distinct lack of light.  There’s a person sitting at the reception desk with bright green hair who sort of waves me over – I wonder if they saw my confusion upon walking inside.

                “You look a little lost, sweety,” the person says. I want to lean forward – their garish appearance would usually be enough to put me off, but any amount of kindness or warmth is alluring in this severe place. I don’t know how Peeta’s come here, by himself, so many times. I’ve been here for less than a minute and I already know I never want to return. “Can I help you?”

                “I came to see my husband.” The receptionist blinks at me, waiting for me to say something more. It takes me a moment to realize I certainly haven’t given them enough information for them to help me. “He’s here getting a prosthetic made. He’s testing the new one today.”

                “Oh! You’ll want floor 10, the prosthetic ward.”

                “Thank you.” I don’t move from the desk, unsure of where to go, how to get to floor 10.

                Once more, the receptionist takes pity on me. “There’s an elevator just around the corner to your left. Take it up to floor 10, and walk straight when you get off. You can miss it. My girlfriend works in that ward – she’s the one with the gorgeous purple hair. Tell her Vetra sent you up – she’ll get you to your husband right away.” I nod and start to back away, but the receptionist stops me with a hand that lightly grips mine. “Are you going to be okay, sweetheart?”

                “Yes,” I say, feeling simultaneously uncomfortable with and grateful for the physical contact. “Thank you for your help.”

                “Any time! It’s my job, after all.”

                The elevator is made of a sort of filmy green glass that I can barely see out of and the 10 button lights up, yellow, when I depress it with my thumb. I wonder how Peeta will react to seeing me? This part of his life, this…reconstructive process that he has to go through every so often has always been a markedly private venture for him. Even though, when it comes down to it, I was the cause of his leg being amputated, he has always acted like he, and he alone, owned the experience. I have always been happy to let him undertake the hospital visits and re-fittings and the struggle to balance on his own, unable to offer any sort of comfort or support that I thought would be of any help. So, as the elevator continues to rise, a soft voice calling out floor numbers as it does, I wonder if it’s really a good idea to be here after all. Peeta and I don’t keep much from one another, not after two shared Hunger Games and 16 years of marriage and two children, but if he wants this to be his own, I don’t know if it’s fair for me to come barging in. By the time the elevator reaches the tenth floor, I stand in the open door, caught between finding the girl with the purple hair and pushing the button that will return me to the lobby.

                After a moment of arguing with myself, a young woman in a hospital uniform steps into the elevator. “Are you getting off here?” she asks, her voice not unkind, but business like. “I’ve got to go to 22.”

                “Yes.” The reply spills out of me without thought and I step off of the elevator as she pushes the button for her floor. I try to swallow down the strange feelings inside of me and turn to walk towards the prosthetics ward. There is, indeed, a beautiful young woman with soft purple hair leaning casually against the ward desk. Her skin is an almost natural hue of pink and curling orange tattoos swirl around her arms and neck like jewelry. It’s easy to see why Vetra called her “the gorgeous one” – even her unnatural appearance draws me in. “Excuse me?” I ask, shuffling up to her. “I’m here looking for my husband. Vetra told me to talk to you?”

                “Oh, Vetra did huh?” Her voice doesn’t sound accusatory, instead it’s soft at the mention of her partner. “Well, who’s your husband? We’ll find him for you.” She turns to shuffle through some files in a rack and then looks at me, waiting for me to speak a name.

                “Peeta Mellark.”

                “Oh.” Her smile sort of falters for a moment, and when it returns, it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “He’s having a tough go of it today, love. I don’t know if he’s in the best shape for company.”

                I try not to panic. What does she mean, a tough go of it? Is this common for Peeta? I blink and tilt my head a little. “What do you mean?”

                “Some bad pain with the new prosthesis. It doesn’t seem to be fitting properly.”

                “That’s fine,” I say, waving a hand and letting go of my anxious breath. “I’ve seen Peeta in pain before. I just wanted to check in on him.”

                She shrugs and steps away from the desk. “I’ll go ask if he wants to see you. Just wait here.”

                There’s another nurse behind the desk, where he’s been typing something in the computer during our entire exchange. He watches silently as Vetra’s girlfriend saunters off down the hall and then looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “So, you’re Katniss Everdeen, huh?” No one’s called me that in years, but I nod before correcting him.

                “It’s been Katniss Mellark for a while now.” I shrug my shoulders.

                “The _Mockingjay_.” His voice is sharp in the space and I look into his dark eyes for a moment.

                “Not for a long time,” I say, my nerves on edge. I didn’t come here looking for a fight.

                Before he can say anything else, the purple haired girl returns. “He’s on a break from the testing. He said he’s good to have a guest for a while.” She gestures for me to follow her and leads me down the hall. We pass a few patient rooms that are empty, their open doors revealing darkened rooms with small beds and stools inside. Peeta is in a room like that, when we finally arrive at his door. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, his leg dangling over the side of the mattress. He’s in his underwear and offers me a grimace by way of greeting. The nurse turns around and leaves as I walk through the door.

                “Hey,” I say, closing in on him. His stump looks red and raw and I want to reach out and sooth him, but something about his tense energy tells me he wouldn’t respond well to being soothed right now.

                “What are you doing here?” I think the question comes out more sharply than he intended, because he winces and purses his lips after he speaks.

                “I don’t know,” I say honestly, settling on the mattress beside him. I’m far enough away that we’re not touching, but I put my hand near his on the mattress, so that our pinkies are almost touching. “I guess I just wanted to see you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just shown up here out of the blue.”

                “No,” he says, shaking his head. His voice is strained and the familiar tremor at the end makes my muscles tense. “You shouldn't have. I’m having a bad day.”

                “A bad day? Like a…” I trail off. I don’t need to finish my sentence. Peeta rarely has bad days that are like other people’s bad days. He doesn’t come home from work in a foul mood, he rarely snaps at the children, even my occasional depressive stupors don’t seem to fray his nerves. When Peeta tells me he’s having a bad day, it means that he can sense his flashbacks are just below the surface, it means that he doesn’t really know if I’m a friend, or a foe.

                I didn’t know. I didn’t have a clue. When he left for his appointment this morning, he grinned and took a bite of the toast I held out for him. He kissed me on the cheek and swatted my rear before pulling on his jacket. Everything was normal just a short time ago, so how could I have known?

                I stare plaintively at him and he starts to explain without my having to ask. “I think it just, you know, being here…in the Capitol. And this new prosthetic is totally the wrong size, which is painful, and frustrating. We’re going to have to stay another two days at least while they make another new one. I’m just a little on edge, I think.” He’s trying to be kind, not to hurt my feelings, but I can see that he just wants me to leave. He inches his hand away from mine on the mattress.

                “Okay,” I say, rising off of the bed. He looks at me, a little sad, a little angry, a little confused. I try to ignore the low dip of his eyebrows and my longing to kiss him. “Okay, well, I’ll just…give you your privacy. I’ll go back to the hotel and call my mom. Ask her to stay for a few more days.”

                “I’ll see you later tonight,” he says. I can hear the relief in his voice as I hurry out of the room.

                My mom is happy to stay another few days with the kids, but my chest is tight with sadness when I say goodnight to my children. I’ve never been apart from them for this long, and I yearn to return to them, to cuddle my affectionate son and tease my serious daughter. As it gets later, the knot of anxiousness in my gut only grows, waiting for Peeta to come back from the hospital. At midnight, I begin to pace the hotel room. He should have been back hours ago. I told him I’d give him his privacy, and I have no inclination to return to the hospital, but my skin itches with concern. At two in the morning, the handle on the door to our room jiggles. Someone on the outside is fumbling with it, trying to get it.

                I click the button on the security cam and see Peeta, outside, his clothing rumpled as he fumbles with his key card. He’s not even putting it in the right spot, just waving it around the sensor. I turn off the cam and open the door for Peeta. He stumbles over the threshold and collapses into a sort of giggly heap on the floor. My husband is very late, and he is very drunk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so intoxicated. I fight the fury that burns its way up my throat and toe Peeta’s feet out of the way so that I can shut the door.

                “Where were you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm. Peeta is lying face down, where he fell, on the floor, his fingers reaching toward the bathroom.

                “I got a little drunk,” he tells me.

                “It’s two in the morning. I’ve been worried sick.” I’m not usually one to nag my husband, but surely Peeta would have known that after seeing him in such a state at the hospital, I would have been overly concerned about him. It’s unlike him to so selfishly leave me to linger with my worried thoughts while he went out and drank far too much alcohol.

                “Speaking of sick,” he tells me, getting up on all fours, “I think I’m gonna puke. I might have already.” He crawls to the toilet and rests his chin on the lip of the seat. “I’m pretty sure I threw up in a fake potted plant.” Peeta lets out a little, uncharacteristic chortle and then tips his head forward with a low groan. “Oh man, Katniss. I drank way too much.”

                I lean against the doorframe of the bathroom and click on the light. Peeta moans at the bright light and moves to straddle the toilet, hugging the porcelain in front of him. “Why did you drink so much, Peeta? Why didn’t you call to let me know what you were doing?”

                “I was so _mad_ ,” he mumbles, gagging at the end of his sentence. He retches into the bowl, his body convulsing. “I was so angry at everything.” He’s not making much sense, trying to talk through bouts of vomiting and I can’t help but take pity on him. I pick up one of the small glasses by the sink and fill it with water before squatting next to him. I rub the back of his neck and he lifts his head, looking at me pitifully. His eyes are red rimmed and there’s some vomit on his chin. I rip off a length of toilet paper and use it to wipe the mess off of his face before forcing him to drink some of the water. As I flush the toilet, he drops the glass to the bathroom floor with a clink.

                “Are you done?”

                “I think so. So sleepy.”

                “I bet.” Tomorrow morning, when he’s sober and fighting the worst hangover he’s likely ever had, he can explain his motives for abandoning me to drink. Tonight, I want to put him in bed and let myself be grateful that Peeta is okay. I help him up and he leans on me as we stumble to the bed. Sometimes I forget how heavy Peeta feels on my shoulders. We’re both exhausted by the time we reach the bed and he tips backwards onto it, exhaling a sour smelling puff of air.

                “Let’s get your coat and shoes, off.” I twist him to the side and start to finagle his arms out of the jacket. Peeta toes off his dress shoes and then rolls over to grin at me while I drape his jacket over a chair.

                “Are you trying to get me naked?” he slurs.

                “No.” I climb into the bed next to him, drawing the covers up over both of us. “I just don’t want to have to take that jacket to the dry cleaners if you’re sick in bed.” I turn to face away from Peeta, leaving about a foot of space between us. I can’t help the anger that’s battling my relief and I close my eyes, longing to sleep and bypass my conflicting feelings.

                Peeta rolls over and wraps his arm around my waist, fingers drifting up to fumble ineptly with the hem of my sleep shirt. “Stop it,” I grunt, batting his hand away.

                “Stop what?” he coos in my ear, fingers dipping to the waistband of my underpants.

                “Peeta,” I say, trying not to snap, “I do not want to have sex with you tonight. I’m very upset with you. Stop, right now.”

                “Oh,” he sort of mumbles, his fingers stilling immediately. I can feel the rough fabric of his trousers pressing in the back of my legs and I know that in the morning, he will regret sleeping in his prosthetic. “Sorry.” He sounds like he means it and he pulls back a little, so that his groin isn’t flush with me any more. He adjusts my shirt so that his hand is on top of the fabric and starts to snore lightly in my ear.

                I wasn’t wrong about Peeta suffering in the morning. I’m awoken by the sound of him vomiting once more. The light in the bathroom is off, so it’s likely he rushed in there at a moment's notice. The clock tells me we’ve only been asleep for about five hours. I don’t know if that’s enough time for Peeta to sleep off his drunken stupor or not, but I get out of bed, none the less. When I walk into the bathroom, he’s laying down on the floor in his underclothes, arm over his eyes. He lets out a low moan at the sound of my footsteps.

                “I am… _so,_ so sorry.”

                “Mhm.” I’m not ready to forgive him yet, not without some sort of explanation, at least.

                Peeta pulls his arm away from his face and tilts up to look at me, the muscles of his abdomen shaking with the effort. “I mean it, Katniss.”

                I can see the sorrow and mortification in his eyes. We all have low points, I concede internally, and I haven’t always given Peeta everything he needs. We all deserve the opportunity to act foolishly every now and then – Peeta, who so rarely acts with anything other than sincere selflessness, deserves it most of all. But I still don’t understand his motivation.

                “Why’d you do it?” I ask, walking over the sit on the floor with him. I put my hands under his head, his sweaty hair cool under my fingers, and guide him to my lap where I can massage his temples. If previous experience is anything to go by, I’m sure Peeta has a retched headache right now. “What were you thinking?” I try to keep my voice steady: I want him to know that I’m really curious about his thought process and not just trying to make him feel guilty.

                “I don’t know,” he murmurs, features relaxing as I move my fingers across his scalp. “I was just so tense, I felt like I was going to have an episode at any moment. After you came to see me, I knew that there was no way I could come back here right after. I was just too high strung. I mentioned it to my doctor, and he told me he and few friends were going out to blow off some steam. I didn’t really know what he meant, but when he invited me along, I thought it would be a good way to settle my nerves before coming back to you. When they started drinking, I thought I’d just have one. But…then one turned into two, and then three…and, well, eventually I was so drunk that I got kicked out. My doctor and his friends weren’t ready to leave, so they sent me here in a vehicle, and here we are.”

                “I’m surprised you found the room.”

                “So am I.” Peeta allows himself a small smile. After a moment, he chokes and opens his eyes. “I am really sorry. I can’t imagine how worried you must have been. It was stupid of me to go out with them, but I honestly thought I’d be back before you talked to the kids. I just…I made a dumb choice.”

                “How much do you remember from when you got back?” I ask, soothing the lines on his forehead.

                He shakes his head from side to side before he realizes that it will make the headache worse and stops sharply, closing his eyes once more. “Not much. I remember falling in the door when you opened it…and that’s pretty much it.”

                “So, you don’t remember trying to have sex with me then?” I ask, a smile playing at my lips even though Peeta can’t see it.

                “I didn’t.” He gasps the words and his eyes fly open once more.

                “Very smooth,” I say, nodding at him. “Charming, even, some would say.”

                “Oh, man, Katniss. How come you’re not more upset with me? I was surprised you were in bed this morning when I woke up.”

                I stroke the hair off of his forehead and trace his eyebrows. “I was pretty angry,” I admit, “but just because I was worried about you. I had no clue what was happening.” I shrug my shoulders and jostle him a little with my movement. “I’ve made more than my fair share of stupid choices in this relationship. I suppose it’s only reasonable that I let you have this one. Considering how much you’re already suffering.”

                Peeta groans and jolts up, dropping his head into the toilet once more. After he’s finished heaving, he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks,” he mutters, looking miserable enough that I’m able to forgive him.

* * *

 

                Willow and Rye seem elated when they pick us up at the train station, bright pink cheeks round with their smiles and little limbs rushing towards us with no discernable grace. My mother grins from the edge of the platform, her arms crossed over her chest in a relaxed stance. Peeta swoops to pick up Rye and Willow kisses my cheek, letting me pick her up and hug her for longer than I’m usually allowed. She’s light in my arms and, since Peeta’s carrying both of our bags, I continue to hold her as we leave the train station.

                “We missed you, Mama. Did you miss us?”

                “Of course, we both did. Did you have fun with Nana?”

                “Lots!” Rye tells me, and his sister nods.

                “What did you do?” Peeta asks, shifting Rye to a more comfortable grip.

                “We went to the meadow and we painted and we visited the bakery and we played with the geese.”

                “Did you go see Sadie and Becky?”

                “Mhm. And we saw Julie.” Sae’s granddaughter doesn’t get many visitors these days, but my mother has always had a soft spot for the girl. I’m not surprised that she took the kids to visit her.

                “What was the most exciting thing you did?” Rye claps his hands in front of Peeta’s face excitedly. Willow takes a moment to think about her options – it must be difficult to pick one thing after seven fun filled days with their grandmother.

                “I think it was when Nana took us to the candy shop and let us get _whatever_ we wanted.”

                I can’t help rolling my eyes when I glance at my mother. She shrugs her shoulder and grins sheepishly at me. “It’s not every day that I get my grandkids all to myself.” I see the penance in her eyes when she says it, like she knows that she’s making up for years of abandoning Prim and I. After five years of her being more present in my life than I can remember happening before, I feel some of the tension of resentment loosening from around my heart. I nod at her and peck Willow on the cheek before setting her down on the steps to our house.

                “Well, I hope you ate all that candy,” I tease, pinching at Willow's arms, “because if there’s any left, I’m going to gobble it all up!” Willow shrieks happily and races into the house to protect her stash of sweets.

                My mom smiles gratefully and follows her in the house while I take Rye from Peeta. “And what about my little bad boy?” I ask, kissing each of his cheeks in turn. “Did you miss me?” I ask him. My answer is a choke hold of a hug and a slobbery wet kiss on my cheek. It’s good to be home once again.

                That night is hard for the children, since they know my mother will be leaving the next day, and we don’t get them down until at least two hours after their usual bedtime. Peeta and I are worn from the journey home and my mother looks just as exhausted as we feel, so we all go to bed immediately after the children. Peeta lies on his back, lets me rest my head on his chest and curls his arm around my back, playing with my hair as I drift to sleep.

                “It was nice,” he says, his words slow and slurred as he tries to stay awake, “to have some time together. Just the two of us. But I’m happy to be back.”

                I think back on the years Peeta and I spent, just the two of us in this house. I remember the days we sat in the doorway and watched the rain fall, or the times we stayed up late getting paint on ourselves and making love in the study, the times we danced to silence, the times we cried and only had one another for comfort. My life had felt so full then, but now I realize how much I had been missing. The absence of my children’s joy and innocence runs deep in my memories of the past, even though I’m glad we waited until we were both ready to have them. I squeeze my arm around Peeta’s chest more tightly and tip back to kiss him. Without moving, all I can reach with my lips is his Adam’s apple, which bobs after I kiss his warm skin. “Me, too,” I say, thinking of the children dozing down the hall, safe and sound in the walls of my home.


	10. Year Thirty-Four

_Year Thirty-Four_

 

                The morning of my 51st birthday finds me on the back porch in the cool morning air. The sun still hasn’t quite risen, and inside the house, my three children are sleeping quietly and Peeta is probably just waking to an empty bed. The mug in between my palms is hot and I rest it on my knees, sucking in a long breath. These moments, the ones where I’m able to quiet the constant stream of thoughts running through my mind ( _How can Willow and Becky want to get married so young? When did Rye take over most of the hunting? When will that last tooth pop out of Ash’s little mouth?)_ are farther and fewer between than I can ever recall. With an impending wedding, a brash 16-year-old of a hunter, and a five-year-old who, strangely, loves Haymitch more with every passing day, I find the internal cacophony is hard to combat at the best of times.

                So, I have to eke out the moments when I can, waking before Peeta and sneaking down to the kitchen, pulling the kettle off of the stove just before it can whistle and alert my family that I’m up. Soon, my husband will wake and come down to find my sitting on the wooden stairs in my pyjamas and old leather jacket, a mug of tea by my hip that’s just waiting for him. But for a few moments, it’s just me, the dew, and the quietly waking wildlife.

                Just as my thoughts turn to Peeta, I can hear his footfalls in the kitchen, heading for the backdoor. This isn’t an everyday routine, but he knows me well enough to check here before letting himself worry. He doesn’t say anything when he comes out, just settles down next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. His quiet presence is enough to break the small bubble I’ve made for myself though, and I lift the mug that I’ve brought out for him in offering. Peeta’s already in his work clothes – I know he won’t stay for long before he heads to the main street and starts his workday.

                “Good morning.” He takes the mug, but doesn’t drink any. “Happy Birthday.”

                “Morning,” I say, tucking my shoulder into the crook of his armpit.

                We sit in a compatible silence for a while. After all this time, it’s easy to just _be_ with Peeta and not speak – it’s comfortable to sit with his arm around me and his thigh leeching heat into mine through my pajama bottoms. “It’s chilly out,” he tells me after a few moments, wiggling against me. “Want me to get you a blanket before I go?”

                “You’re leaving now?” I stay where I am, pressed against him. This is a good birthday present, I think, and I want it to last a little while longer.

                “I have a very special cake to make today,” he tells me, fingers scratching at the stained material of my jacket. “It’s likely to take me all day.”

                “I don’t need a cake,” I tell him, like I’ve told Peeta every year. And every year, he still comes home from work two hours early with a small white box that has my favorite flavor of cake covered in green frosting sitting inside of it. At this point, I’m sure the routine is more for the kids than for me – they like to tease their mother with every passing year that she is getting older. But I wear my age like a badge of pride – I’ll never forget the days when living to be 51 was a rare thing indeed, even if I’m grateful that my children will never understand that feeling.

                “Oh, did I say it was for you? It’s not for you.”

                “Of course not.”

                “It’s for someone else.”

                “I understand.”

                Peeta laughs: just a little, soft chuckle that no one would hear but me. He turns his head and brushes his lips against my ear in a lazy kiss, stubble rough on my skin. “Are you going hunting today? Willow said she would watch Ash for you.”

                “Maybe. But not with Rye.”

                “Why not?”

                “He’s too good. I won’t be outshone on my birthday.” Peeta reaches across his lap to squeeze my knee.

                “He’s not better than you, not yet. Give him another couple of years.”

                “Thank you, loving husband.”

                “You’re welcome, loving wife.” Peeta waits a beat, his fingers warm on my shoulder and my knee, before he sighs. “I really do need to get going though. Want me to get that blanket?”

                I shake my head. “I should start making breakfast. Ash will be up soon.” So Peeta pushes himself off of the wooden steps, crackling paint flaking off as he rises, and then reaches out to me to offer me a hand up. I let him help me, even though I don’t need it, and follow him into the kitchen. He kisses me quickly and then heads for the front door, waving through the archway as he leaves.

                Ash, our youngest child and the biggest surprise, is our earliest riser. Maybe it was because she slept in a bassinet in our room for so many years and woke when Peeta and I did, or maybe it’s just luck of the draw, but she’s usually up just after Peeta leaves for work. Willow and Rye will sleep until I bang on their doors to wake them, but my sweet, small, graceful daughter is in the kitchen every morning with the sunrise, like clockwork. As I pull out a large skillet and some eggs, I hear her small feet flutter into the kitchen. She’s so miniscule, like a little bird, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist and humming into my back.

                “Good morning, young miss.” I set the eggs on the counter and twist to return her hug, dropping a kiss onto her sleep mussed hair.

                “Happy birthday, Mommy.” She is my only child who calls me mommy rather than mama, and I’m still not sure where she learned it.

                “Thank you,” I tell her, brushing some of the blond hair back towards her braid. “What do you think of French toast for breakfast?” This is something I had never had until 20 years ago, when Peeta made it for me one cold morning because there was too much snow for him to walk to work.  

                “Yes, please!” Ash starts to drag a stool over to the counter so that she can assist in me in the process of making breakfast for her older siblings. She hitches up her nightgown to clamber up and I twist my hair into a bun before doing the same with hers. “With strawberry syrup?” She asks, stretching across the counter to get a bowl. I nod and crack four eggs into the ceramic dish. “And powdered sugar?”

                I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “You’d think it was your birthday, today!” I say, but there’s no malice in my voice so she giggles, too, whisking the eggs while I add milk.

                “You’re getting old, Mommy,” she reminds me.

                “I’m not as old as Haymitch,” I tell her. At 75, I’m honestly surprised that the old man is still alive, let alone able to keep up with my rambunctious five-year-old for the hour a day that I let her spend with him. He’s pretty immobile now, and doesn’t leave his house for much other than to sit on the porch and grumble, but Effie moved in with him about 10 years ago and they take pretty good care of one another.

                “You’ll never be as old as Haymitch!” she says, and she means it as a kindness, that she can never imagine her mother being so frail and tired, but I swallow down my cough at her words. I wonder if I’ll live to be 75? To see all of my children as adults, who have found something they love to do and excel at it. Willow is already an artist, a painter like her father, with a kindness in her soul that rivals even Peeta’s. Rye is a hunter, giddy and sweet when he isn’t squatting on the forest floor with an arrow between his finger tips. But I have to wait and see what my youngest will become: something all of her own, I’m sure, since this blonde haired beauty has been nothing but an enigma to me since day one.

                I take a loaf of white bread out of the bread box and press a knife into the golden colored crust, making thick slices for Ash to dunk into the eggy mixture in the bowl. She passes the soggy squares to me so that I can drop them into the skillet – she’s learned from experience to be cautious of getting too close to the stove when it’s on.

                “What do you want for your birthday?” she asks me, watching as I wait to flip the browning pieces of bread.

                What do I want? Beyond what I already have, it’s hard to imagine much. Three healthy children, who are safe and steady in my life, a loving husband whose mental health is still doing fine, despite the doctors’ constant warnings, loved ones and friends who are still around after so much time has passed. I look at Ash and I see another five-year-old, blonde haired girl who used to play chess with me and sing songs with me, who grew up far too fast and left me when she was far too young. I blink back the unexpected tears forming in the corners of my eyes at the thoughts of Prim – they don’t come often anymore, but when they do, they are no easier to deal with than they were 10, 20, 30 years ago. I reach out and tap my finger on the tip of Ash’s perky nose, making a wide smile form on her face. “You!” I say, swallowing my sadness for Prim. “I want you to be happy and to have fun. Do you think you can manage that for me?”

                Ash nods vociferously, taking her duty of enjoying the day very seriously.

                “Breakfast is almost ready. Why don’t you go wake you brother and sister?”

                She hops down from the stool and races into the living room, vaulting up the stairs while she hollers her siblings’ names. I know they won’t be happy about getting up so early, but it’s not a common occurrence, so I figure they can manage it. Unsurprisingly, Willow comes grumbling down the stairs, her eyes barely open in the rising sunlight. At 18, it’s almost uncanny how much she looks like I did in my late teens. Her dark hair is cropped short – close to her skull – in what I’m sure is an imitation of Johanna’s “cool hair do, mom,” but beyond that dissimilarity she is almost a carbon copy of my younger self. She holds her sister’s hand and lets Ash drag her into the kitchen. “Mommy and me made French toast!”

                “Mommy and I,” Rye corrects, grunting when he stubs his toe on the table leg.

                “Happy birthday, Mom,” Willow says, coming over to kiss my cheek. I have to stop myself from lifting my hand to run it through her short, downy hair. She hates it when I do that. Rye echoes her sentiment and falls into a chair, letting his younger sister clamber into his lap.

                “Is there any coffee?” Willow asks.

                I shake my head. I never did get used to the taste of it – never really developed a strong enough want to. Occasionally, Peeta will make it before he goes to work, but otherwise the kids are on their own.

                Willow groans and gets to work making enough for her and her brother while I dish out everyone’s breakfast. “So, who’s doing what today?” I ask. It’s a Saturday, which means no school for my two youngest, and Becky will be working all morning, so Willow won’t be distracted by her fiancé. I duck into the pantry to grab the syrup and powdered sugar, dropping them into the middle of the table as I sit. Rye doesn’t wait for anyone else, just digs into the double portion I (smartly) gave him.

                “I asked Papa to tell you, I’ll watch Ash for a while if you want some time to yourself,” Willow says, reaching out to tousle her sister’s hair.

                “He did tell me that.”

                “Good, because we still need to go and pick out your birthday present, don’t we?” Ash nods at her sister, the one person she looks up to more than Haymitch (thank God), and shoves a massive piece of gooey, sticky toast in her mouth.

                “I thought you might want to go hunting, or something,” Willow offers, reaching across the table to wipe some stick off of her sister’s chin.

                “Yeah, you know, before you’re too old,” Rye butts in with a snort.

                “Jesus, Rye, just lay off,” Willow blurts.

                I grin at them. They don’t argue often, but it’s usually because Rye knows exactly which buttons to press to annoy Willow. “No need to fight,” I say, holding up both of my hands. “Rye’s just jealous that he’s not as good as me. He’s trying to psych me out.”

                “You wish,” he says, but his grin tells me he’s only teasing.

                “I think I will go spend a little time in the woods,” I tell them, finishing off my breakfast. “Make sure this one takes a bath, please.” I stoop to kiss Ash, narrowly avoiding her syrupy face when she turns to return my affection. “I’ll be home in a few hours.”

                “Don’t take too long,” Rye shouts at me, even as I ascend the stairs, “or you’ll miss your _surprise_ birthday cake!”

                “Shhh!” I can hear Ash admonishing him from the top of the landing. “She’s not supposed to know about it.”

                By the time I’ve changed, the kids are talking about one of the teachers at their school, someone new who Ash seems to be particularly fond of. I stick my head in the kitchen and bid them a quick farewell before grabbing my gear and trotting out of the front door. It is good to spend time with my family, but over the years, I found that some alone time is just as important.

                I consider stopping in at the bakery on my way to the woods, but Peeta will be busy and won’t want to let me in the back, so I veer away from the main street and head towards the meadow. The ground beneath the treeline of the forest is still dark – the sun isn’t high enough to bypass the treetops – when I duck under a branch and start picking my way along the ground. I’m not sure if I’m going to hunt today, but my destination is a familiar one. Using the large boulders and massive trees as landmarks, I make my way towards the small lake where I have made so many fond memories. It will be too cold to go swimming, but I still sit on the spongy earth next to the water and watch the rippling of its opalescent surface.

                A bird trills in the far off distance and something rustles in the trees as it scampers off. I remove my bow and sheath, set them down in the grass, and tilt backwards, laying down to look up at the sky. There are only a few clouds floating on the bright blue backdrop, and I watch them shift for a little before closing my eyes. There’s a burble of water in the lake and when I crack an eye to see what’s making the noise, there’s a deer across the water’s surface, drinking nonchalantly, like I’m not even there. I must have become too relaxed in my hunting regimen recently if the prey here is so comfortable around me. I watch it drink its fill before it turns and munches at the still damp grass. It would be an easy shot, but my days of necessity hunting are long over and I don’t relish the thought of dragging this doe all the way back to town. So I flop back down and close my eyes once more.

                I’m not sure how long I lay there, listening to the world pass me by, but when I open my eyes once more, the sun is high in the middle of the sky. I’m sure I’ve used my few hours of stolen time already, so I roll onto my stomach and shuffle up from the side of the lake. It seems I’ve been sharing my oasis with the same doe all this time, and she bolts as I get to my feet, hooves scuttling along the underbrush in her haste to flee. I swing my sheath of arrows over my shoulder and grip the worn wood of my bow, head back towards town.

                I can hear Ash’s laughter before I see her, shrieking with delight at something. When I round the corner and pass through the still standing archway to the Victor’s Village, I see her darting in and out of yards, her older brother chasing her and shouting threats. “When I get you, I’m gonna tickle you so hard, you’ll pee!” he hollers, ripping around the corner of one of the still empty houses. Willow is standing on Haymitch’s porch, chatting excitedly with Effie about something – likely the wedding. Even as Effie gets on in years, nothing can deter her from planning a terrific event.

                My youngest dashes up to me, hiding behind my legs. “Save me!” she shouts, panting into the backs of my thighs. “Rye is going to kill me!”

                “What did you do?”

                “Nothing! Ahhh!” She lets out a bellow of fear as her brother grabs her from behind, tickling her rib cage mercilessly.

                “Nothing, my foot!” he grunts, trying to keep a hold on his wiggling prisoner. “She said she was going to tell Amber Lynn that I liked her. You better keep your mouth shut!” There’s just enough harshness in his voice that I can tell Rye is honestly concerned about his long standing, secret crush getting out. Which might not be such a horrible thing, I think, as I well know from past experience.

                “I’m going to pee!” Ash yelps, kicking her feet and flailing her arms to try and escape.

                “That’s enough, Rye, put her down.” He stops attacking his sister but maintains his grip.

                “Make her promise she won’t tell.”

                “Ash, promise your brother that you won’t tell anyone that he’s madly in love with Amber Lynn.”

                “Mo-om…” he groans, dropping his sister to the ground without the requisite promise.

                “Did you have a nice morning?” Willow asks, jogging over to meet us as Effie waves from the porch.

                “Lovely, thank you.”

                Later that afternoon, when Rye and Willow have gone to do whatever it is that they like to do on Saturdays, Ash and I sit in the front room. She’s on the phone with Johanna’s daughter, talking about some animated television show that they like to watch, and I’m trying to braid her hair. She’s a slippery girl and keeps moving from side to side as she talks excitedly about some pony with a strange name. The front door opens and Peeta walks in with a familiar white box and grin on his face.

                “Happy Birthday!” he says, kicking his shoes off. He looks quizzically at Ash on the floor when I get up to kiss him hello. “Where are the kids?” he asks, giving me only a perfunctory peck in return.

                I shrug my shoulders and walk with him into the kitchen where he sets the box on the counter. “I don’t know, doing their thing. Whatever it is that they do.”

                “Katniss,” he admonishes, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms, “It’s your birthday, they should be here.”

                “Everyone was here last year,” I say. Indeed, my 50th birthday had been a massive celebration with friends coming in from districts near and far. Our house had been filled to the brim with guests. To be honest, I prefer this birthday so far – it’s been a remarkably pleasant day. “And we ate breakfast together. They’ll be home for dinner.”

                “This is silly,” he insists, refusing to relent. “It’s your day.”

                “And I’m enjoying myself,” I tell him. And I mean it. I walk over to Peeta and wrap my arms around his shoulders, press my head into the crook of his neck where his tense muscle softens under my breath. He returns my embrace, running his hands up and down my back slowly, callouses catching on the fabric of my sweater. After all these years, Peeta is still as strong as sturdy as I recall him being at 16, all muscle and bulk beneath me. He smells like cinnamon and feels warm under my palms, takes a deep breath in as he presses his nose to my hair.

                “I love you,” he tells me, tilting his head to kiss the corner of my jaw. “I love you so much.”

                “I love you, too.”

                “I’m serious.” Peeta pulls back a little to meet my eyes and I can’t help the concern that crosses my face. He looks remarkably somber and his fingers clench at my sweater.

                “I know. I’m serious, too.” Peeta swallows, his eyes flutter shut and open. “Is everything okay?” I’m trying not to worry, but he’s making it difficult.

                “Yeah, everything’s…everything’s great. I just…I never thought, in a million years, all that time ago –“ He’s not making much sense and I press my stomach to his, touch his chin with my forehead.

                “What?”

                “I never would have imagined this was possible,” he tells me, apparently more comfortable speaking to me when I’m not staring at him. “It’s so…did you ever think we’d be here?”

                “Not at first,” I tell his clavicle. “But after…after a while, it seemed like it was always meant to be this way.” I don’t know if either one of us is really making any sense, but it’s enough that we understand each other. How did we get here? The sister-less fire mutt and Capitol hijacked orphan who fell in love while they were broken and stayed in love once they healed? How do we have three precious, loving, well adjusted children who make me smile every single day? The beginning of our story is written on scorched pages, that can crumble in your fingertips. But this part, the middle that I get to share with Peeta, and Annie, and Johanna, and the people who are still around and still matter – this middle is written on beautiful, thick, white paper that’s going to be around for a long time yet. I tip my head back to meet Peeta’s lips as he tilts down towards mine making me feel the hum of happiness that’s become so familiar in my spine.

                Ash laughs in the front room and I hear Willow and Rye come stomping in through the front door, grumbling about something that happened in town. Peeta and I pull apart, our moment interrupted by the best thing that can disrupt us. He grins at me, turns to open the box and reveals a striking green cake inside. My eldest enters the kitchen, wrapping me in a hug and passes her father a small package wrapped in paper. “You forgot candles again, didn’t you Papa?” She kisses my cheek and steps back from the embrace. “Who’s ready for some cake?”

                Her phone call over, Ash darts into the kitchen, scrambles onto her chair at the table. “Me! I am!” she shouts, reaching for the plates that Rye takes from the cabinet.

                Peeta smiles at me across the kitchen, over the heads of the three most remarkable things we’ve ever done and brings the cake to the table. Willow lights the candles and as I lean forward to blow them out, I can’t help but remember a technique that used to bring me comfort when I needed it most. Now, it’s completely unnecessary, but it still comes back to me in unexpected moments.

 _My name is Katniss Mellark. I am 51 years old. I live in District 12. I am_ happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sure has been a pleasure to write. Exploring Katniss' and Peeta's growth through their relationship and shared experiences has made me feel like I know them even better. There are still some little tidbits from this universe that I had in mind that didn't fit into the Fibonacci sequence timeline that I may publish outside of this story, but this chapter completes the journey that I had in mind for Katniss and Peeta. To those of you that made it all the way through this story to the end, thanks for travelling with me!


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